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General Editor 

LINDSAY TODD DAMON, A.B. 

Professor of English in Brown University 


DDISON The Sir Rogev de Coverley Papers —Abbott. 

—‘Seiecriows from The Taller and The Spec- 

ineid of Virgil—A llinson. 

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41i3h Poems—From Pope, Gray, Goldsmith, Coleridge. Byron 
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glish Popular Ballads—H art.; 

ays—E nglish and American—Alden. 

miliar Letters—G reenlaw. 

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Hake Httgltfili GIlaBStra —rottttnur& 

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SCOTT —Quentin Durward —Simonds. 

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SCOTT —Lay of the Last Minstrel —Moody and Willard. 

SCOTT— Marmion —Moody and Willard. 

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As You Like It Macbeth 

Hamlet Midsuynmer-NighVs Dream 

Henry V Romeo and Juliet 

Julius Caesar The Tempest 

Twelfth Night 

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Three American Poems —The Raven, Snow-Bound, Miles Standish — 
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SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPAN 

CHICAGO; 623 S. Wabash Ave. NEW YORK: 8 East 34th St« 



















































tirtjc Hafee Cnglifil) ClaSssicS 

REVISED EDITION WITH HELPS TO STUDY 


QUENTIN DURWARD 


BY 

SIR WALTER SCOTT 

It 

EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE 

BY 

WILLIAM EDWARD SIMONDS, Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, KNOX COLLEGE 


SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
CHICAGO NEW YORK 








COPYRIGHT, 1910, 1919 
BY SCOTT, FORESMAX AXD COMPANY 


APR 21 !9|9 


ROBERT O. LAW COMPANY 

tOITlON BOOK manufacturers 

CHICAGO. U. S. A. 

©CI.A5:i5l48 


^ vO ^ 


1* 


PREFACE 


In presenting this edition of Quentin Durward for the 
^use of pupils in secondary schools, the editor has sought to 
^ provide such information as seems necessary to its apprecia¬ 
tion by boys and girls. The annotation has been made as brief 
and as simple as possible. The novel w^as not written to serve 
\ as a source of general information ; and the interest, of course, 
must center in the story. Yet, as a matter of fact, interest will 
be Intensified if the pupil is led to recognize the value of the 
work as a whole, and if, here and there, he notes the evidence 
of skilful construction and artistic effect. A few suggestions 
bearing on these points will be found in the Introduction. 
The breadth of Scott’s vocabulary, his customary free and 
accurate selection of words, is one of the notable characteristics 
of his style. To illustrations of this and similar points of 
minuter criticism it is the province of the teacher, not the 
^ editor, to direct attention. There is no difficulty in providing 
material for study in connection with a work like this; the 
danger is that the effort at enlightenment may be over-urged 
and the natural enjoyment of the novel be partly smothered by- 
weight of comment. 

The notes originally contributed by Scott are included in 
this edition; a few of the shorter ones are placed among the 
footnotes, the longer ones are gathered in the appendix. The 
2 i\xt\\OT\ Introduction to Quentin Durivard (written in 1831) 
is also there included; but the original Introduction —an 


3 


V 





4 


Preface 


elaborate and entertaining fiction which assumes to explain the > 
writer’s interest in his theme and his discovery of the sources! 
used—is purposely omitted. It is hardly within the compre¬ 
hension of the pupil and would be burdensome rather than 
helpful. This Introduction can be found, if desired, in any of 
the standard editions of Scott’s novels. Occasional errors 
occurring in the original text, and corrected by later editors! 
of Scott’s Works, are allowed to stand in this edition, accom- i 
panied by the emendation in brackets. ‘ 





CONTENTS 

I 

I 

(Deface. 

i 

Map. 

I 

Introduction 

' 1. Biographical Sketch. 

II. Quentin Durward. 

List of Characters. 

Chronology and Summary of Scott s Career 

Bibliography. 

Text... 

Scott’s Introduction. 

Scott’s Notes. 

Index of Words Annotated. 

Appendix 

Helps to Study.. 

Dramatization . 

Chronological Table... • 


PAGE 

3 

6 , 

.. 7 

.. 13 

.. 18 

.. 19 

.. 20 

.. 21 

,..559 

...567 

...587 


.593 

.599 

.602 


5 


















MAP OF FRANCE 

the general course of QUENTIN’S JOURNEY FROM PLESSIS 
J.ES TOURS TO LIEGE, AND THENCE TO PERONNE 
IS INDICATED BY THE BLACK LINES 


« 


1 



































INTRODUCTION 


I. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771. 
, whose name was also Walter, was a Writer to 
the Signet, or attorney at law. His paternal 
ancestry contained many famous names. One 

f 'of the poet’s ancestors, likewise a Walter, commonly known 
as Auld Wat of Harden, is commemorated in The Lay of the 
j Last Minstrel. Auld Wat’s son, William, having been made 
prisoner in one of the raids common enough in that day, was 
I given his choice between hanging, and marrying a daughter' 
I of his captor, whose nickname of Meikle-Mouthed Meg is 
I significant of her personal appearance. After three days of 
deliberation, this unwilling suitor chose the lady, and, as we 
are told,, never had reason to regret his choice. Another 
Walter Scott, great grandfather of the novelist, was identified 
with the cause of the Stuarts, and it was from him, perhaps, 

; that Sir Walter inherited that sentiment for the same cause 
so evident in his works. Scott’s father was a dignified and 
I somewhat formal personage. He is portrayed in Redgauntlet 
in the character of Alexander Fairford. The mother of the 
novelist was Anne Rutherford Scott, daughter of a professor 
in the University of Edinburgh. She was well educated, a 
woman of kindly nature and warm heart. 

Walter was the ninth of twelve children, and although 
unusually strong and athletic when a m.an, he was sickly as a 
child. When two and a half years old, he was 
Childhood. taken to his grandfather’s farm at Sandyknowe, 
where he remained under the special care of his grandmother 
for several years. One of the old servants on the place after- 


His father 

I 

Ancestry. 


7 





8 


Introduction 


wards described him as “a sweet-tempered bairn, a darling 
with all about the house.” Here the child grew rapidly 
strong; although lame, he could clamber about with agility, 
and even while very young learned to gallop about the 
country on a small Shetland pony of his owm. Amid such 
surroundings Scott’s taste for the ancient literature of his 
native Scotland developed early and was fostered by all the 
circumstances of his environment. Under the direction of his 
grandmother, whose memory was a treasure-house of the past, 
he learned to read and to recite some of the old border-poems, 
of which he grew passionately fond. On one occasion he 
declaimed the ballad of Hardicanute with such gusto that he; 
quite put out the parish clergj'man, who complained that he 
“might as w^ell speak in a cannon’s mouth as where that child 
was.” The vivid imagination of the romancer was manifested 
in the boy and roused the astonishment of his friends. A 
relative of the family saw him when six years old reading to 
his mother, and describes him thus: “He was reading a poem 
to his mother when I went in. I made him read on; it was 
the description of a shipwreck. His passion rose with the 
storm. ‘There’s the mast gone,’ says he; ‘crash it goes; they 
will all perish.’ After his agitation he turns to me, ‘That is 
too melancholy,” sa5^s he; ‘I had better read you something 
more amusing.’ K 

In 1779 the eight-year-old lad came back to Edinburgh 
and was placed in the High School, wTere he made less of a 
Schooldays reputation as a scholar than as a teller of tales 
to his comrades in the school. The spirit of his 
rough and ready ancestry was not wanting in the youth; he 
was a good fighter on occasion and bold enough in all boyish 
adventure. Although, as he says, he “glanced like a meteor 
from one end of the class to the other,” meaning thereby a 
movement in the wrong direction, it is not to be inferred that 
he was either a dunce or an idler. With the books that he^ 
enjoyed he grew more than familiar. He absorbed the spirit 
as well as the words of the authors he loved. Something of 




Biographical sketch 


I their enthusiasm and something of their prejudice he assimi- 
^ lated also. Even as a boy Scott vcas a stanch, unyielding 
Tory, and took the side of the Cavaliers as against the Round- 
heads, from a conviction that their creed was “the more 
gentlemanlike” of the two. Such were the characteristics of 
this precocious lad; it is not difficult to see in them the pos¬ 
sibility and promise of a Mannion and an Ivanhoe. 

About 1785 or 1786 Scott entered his father’s office to 
study law, supplementing his office-study with courses in the 
law-school of the University. He worked on 
Professional qj. geven years, with more or less 

Career. perseverance, though with no great enthusiasm 

for his profession. As occasion offered the young attorney 
made excursions into the Highlands and met some of the char- 
^ acters afterwards introduced in the tales. He also joined the 
: yeomanry, or militia, and thus gained acquaintance with 
military matters. In 1792 he w^s admitted to the bar. 

On Christmas eve, 1797, the young advocate was married 
I to Miss Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, or Charpentier, as 
the name originally stood, a lady of French parentage, 
although reared and educated in England. Soon afterwards 
Scott was made sheriff of Selkirkshire and rented Ashestiel, 
a country-house on the Tweed. In 1806 he assumed the 
duties of one of the Clerks of Session, but did not enjoy the 
salary of this office, <£1300, until 1811. 

Scott’s entrance upon a literary career began with the 
publication of some translations from the newer romantic 
poetry of Germany. In 1799 he published a 
Literary version of Gioethe s Goetz von Bevlichin^en. 

Labors. a border 

ballad, and in 1805 appeared his first long poem. The Lay 
of the Last Minstrel. This was followed by Marinion, in 
1808; The Lady of the Lake, in 1810; The Vision of Don 
Roderick. 1811, and Rokeby. 1813. But this was not all; 
along with other poems of lesser note, Scott also did an 
extraordinary amount of editorial work during this period, 





INTRODUCTION 


including editions, with biographies, of Dryden and Swift 
His long poems, the best metrical romances ever written' 
made their author the most popular writer of his day. The 
history of the Scottish borders was rich in material suited to 
the purpose of the romancer, and Scott, thoroughly familiar 
with the customs and traditions of his native land and happily 

m.nrr,? 7'"^ “ sympathy for his subject, was remarkably well 
qualified to thus revive the spirit of the past. The poet soon 

Abbot f T In 1811 h^ bought 

Abbotsford-forever afterward associated with his name—an 

ErbuTgh 

TA W P“'’l‘**’ed the first two cantos of 

Me Harolds Pilgrimage, and followed these in the 

The Novels. The Giaour and The Bride 

f hdos. There was therefore now a 
• fhe field. Rokehy had not proved so successful 

as toe earlier poems, and after two further ventures r TA' 
Bridal of Triermain. 1813, and The Lord of the Isles 1815 
Scot quietly withdrew from the field of verse and opened 
hefn K ^ ■"'aginative creation the like of which had Lver 
ore been discwered in English literature. In 1814 appeared 
H averley; or Tis Sixty Years Since, a novel of manners and 
adventure in Scotland during the period indicated by the title 

secr^-v finilf’ U ■'Igo^asly concealed his identity until 

Hme rl ^ ^ found himself for a second 

1815 followed in 

1815, the work of sue weeks at Christmas time’’; then came 

r ■ "gitT'T”" 



Biographical Sketch 


1 


I things preventing a man from doing what he has a mind.” 
^ When The Bride of Lammermoor was completed, however, 
I Scott declared that he did not recollect one single incident, 
fj character or conversation it contained, so severe and so con- 
V tinuous had been the pain which had tormented him through- 
r out its dictation. 

^ The year 1819 marks a slight departure in Scott’s selec- 
tion of subjects. Hitherto he had confined himself to the field 
: of Scottish history and Scottish character, a field where he felt 
himself perfectly at home; he now tried an “experiment on a 
subject purely English,” and with gratifying success. Ivanhoe, 
if not the greatest, is probably the most popular of all his 
■' works. No one impressed by the scope of the imagination dis'- 
; played in its pages, the rapidity of its movement or its freshness 
i of tone, w^ould suspect that the author while engaged upon its 
% creation was racked with physical pain; yet such w^as the fact, 
'i for at the time of its creation Scott was still a sufferer from 
the malady already referred to. 

In 1820 Scott was made a baronet, the first person thus 
honored by George IV. after his accession to the throne. At 
Abbotsford he lived the life of a Scottish laird, hospitable, 
industrious, busying himself with official duties and displajdng 
a capacity for work that has hardly been equaled. Along with 
memoirs., essays and translations, continued to appear the suc¬ 
cessive volumes of the Waverley novels. Quentin Durzvard 
was published in 1823. Of this novel more will be said later; 
the remaining works need not be noted here. It is, however, 
supremely important that the significance of this unparalleled 
series of novels should be understood. Prior to the publica¬ 
tion of Waverley in 1814, romance existed only in the crudest 
and most artificial form. Sir Walter gave us the first historical 
novels w^orthy of the name; it is not putting it too strongly to 
say that he created the literature of historical romance. His 
influence was not confined to English literature; it was felt 
in all the literatures of Europe. The great Erench roman- 


Introduction 


ticists, Alexander Dumas and Victor Hugo drew their inspira¬ 
tion directly from Scott. 

In 1805 the novelist had become a silent partner in the 
printing and publishing firm of the Ballantynes; he was also 
financially involved with Constable, the pub- 
lisher of the novels. There was evident mis¬ 
management on all sides, and in 1826 both firms collapsed, 
leaving Sir Walter under a load of debt which he bore 
heroically till his death. The amount of the obligations 
assumed by Scott was about £130,000. He turned over to 
trustees his property at Abbotsford and set bravely to work 
to discharge the debt. He was fifty-five years old and sub¬ 
ject to the attacks of a new disorder, which struck at the 
brain and eventually caused paralysis. The story of the next 
few years is full of pathos. Within two years’ time he had 
earned nearly £40,000, £18,000 having come from the sales 
of a Life of Napoleon Bonaparte. In February, 1830, the 
novelist had a stroke of paralysis, but still he struggled on at 
his task. On September 23, 1831, too late to regain his 
shattered health, Scott left Abbotsford for a trip to Italy, 
seeking rest. He sailed from Portsmouth for the Mediterran¬ 
ean upon a frigate placed by the government at his disposal, 
visited Malta, Naples, and Rome, and then began to long for 
home. In May the party started to return, traveling down 
the Rhine to Rotterdam, where the almost dying man was 
placed on an English steamboat, arriving in London, June 13, 
1832. Here he rallied, and, though very weak, at his urgent 
desire was brought home to Abbotsford, recognizing familiar 
scenes and greeting with a cry of delight the first view of its 
cherished towers. Foremost among his old friends eager to 
extend a greeting were his favorite dogs, and Sir Walter 
smiled or sobbed as they fawned about him and licked his hand. 

Scott lived two months after his return. On September 
17, in an interval of consciousness, he called his son-in-law to 
the bedside and said: “Lockhart, I may have but a minute to 
speak to you. My dear, be a good man—be virtuous—be 


13 


Quentin Durward 

religious—be a good man. Nothing else will give you any 
comfort when you come to lie here.” Four days later, Septem- 
I her 21, 1832, Sir Walter died. He was buried in Dryburgh 
Abbey w^here for many generations his ancestors had been laid. 

I His death was regarded as a national loss and unprecedented 
I honors were paid to his memory. 

The terrible task, under the strain of which he at last 
I succumbed, was not accomplished during the novelist’s life- 
time, although by his sacrificing labor the debt was reduced 
more than one-half in the six years of ceaseless toil. The 
remainder of the debt was more than covered by the royalties 
from his books and within a few years after his death Sir 
Walter’s account was clear. 


II. QUENTIN DURWARD 


Ouentin Durward, like Ivanhoe, is a typical historical 
romance. It was the method of Scott to create certain purely 
fictitious characters, and, through the medium of 
Purpose and ^ thrilling and absorbing narrative, to develop 
Method. against a background of history, 

introducing other characters well-known in history, portraying 
their peculiarities of personality and conduct in accordance 
with historical fact. His hero and fieroine are usually, if not 
always, fictitious; the historical personages are such as were 
conspicuous in the epoch to which they belong. Thus in the 
present instance we have the fascinating narrative of heroic 
and romantic adventure in which the gallant Scottish archer, 
Quentin Durward, is the principal figure; we are heartily 
interested in the account of his exploits, particularly in the 
various phases of his association^ with the beautiful young 
Countess of Croye and in the ultimate success of his wooing. 
But enveloping this story and essential to its every detail, 
is the real historical element involved in the appearance of 
Louis XI. of France and Charles the Bold of Burgundy. In 




H 


Introduction 


reading the novel, therefore, we should he conscious of th, 
two-fold purpose in the work, and should note how cleverly 
romance and history mingle in a most complete and charminti 
unity of action. 

When we have read Chapter I., “The Contrast,” we see' 
that the historical situation has been carefully outlined and the; 
Dramatic Stage prepared for the actors; if, later we 

t*h" stT"' ‘J'sc’over 

inpident of the subsequent plot 
illustrates —and illustrates with design —the exposition 
of character contained in those paragraphs of Chapter I 
devoted to Louis and Charles. It will be found that the 

H "'‘th considerable dramatic' 

ettect, Md indeed with an order not unlike that of a great 
P ay. Chapters II.-VI. may be compared to the first act 
a drama, in which the general situation is described, the i 

hex'" Th'‘h“"' ‘nfoduced, and the action is fairly 
hegun. The hero appears as “the wanderer” in Chapter II 
and comes in contact with two important personages whose 
.dentity is for the time concealed; interest in hFs fur he 
fortunes is unmistakably aroused. In Chapters IV. and V 

is begu7° Th' =*'■'= '■'“'■od‘'Ced and the love-story 

incidents' aid rhT progression of 

, nd the first formal climax is attained with 

Quentins escape from the hangman’s noose in Chapter VI 

oI theToorf ""k" end 

the climaxes the incidents as if m scenes, noting 

the climaxes, and portioning the chapters into acts- this 
last would result about as follows:—Act I The Wan 
derer at Plessis-les-Tours, Chapters II.-VI.; Act ir A 

A« in'^The' To VII.-Xl’lI.; 

Act iv ’ It JpP''"ey to Liege, Chapters XIV.-XVIII ■ 

Chapters 

Louis, Chapters XXVI.'-XXXIv.; Act VL^Att I 
and Quentin’s Achievement, Chapters XXXV.-XXXVIL 


15 


Quentin Durward 


Historical 

Value. 


While the novel manifestly should be read in the spirit 
of one who reads with interest and pleasure,—as its author 
designed,—its substantial contribution to our 
knowledge of times and men must not be over¬ 
looked. Scott’s general familiarity with the 
history of the middle ages, with mediaeval customs and the 
details of costume, etiquette, architecture, armor and warfare 
was remarkable. Not altogether accurate doubtless, it was 
nevertheless sufficient to enable the great story-teller to give a 
vivid and suggestive picture of the time, even if painted in 
the bright colors of romance. In familiarizing himself with 
the historical data involved in the present work, including the 
baffling personality of Louis XI. and the peculiar situation of 
the French during this part of the feudal period. Sir Walter 
was indefatigable in his study of authoritative records, relying 
mainly upon the Mcmoires of Philip des Comines, the 
chronicler of Louis’s picturesque reign, but reading widely 
and ransacking the shelves of libraries in his search for all 
available illumination. The result is a brilliant presenta¬ 
tion of the period and a w^onderful portraiture of the wily 
king. In the main the narrative and the portrait are probably 
correct, although the novelist has handled his material with 
freedom and—as he frankly states—has arranged the events 
in accordance wdth the demands of dramatic art, not always 
in strict chronological order. These anachronisms, as such 
discrepancies are termed, are due not to error but to inten¬ 
tion ; and are permissible, in all creative work whether drama, 
poetry, or fiction. 

If the student is familiar with Ivanhoe, he will find it 
worth while to make some comparison of the tw^o novels with 
respect to the treatment of incident and char- 
Comparison acter. The great scenes in Ivanhoe are more 

with Ivanhoe. i 

spectacular than corresponding scenes in Ouen- 
tm Durward; but the same effective arrangement of material, 
the same masterly preparation for dramatic effect will be 
recognized. If the incidents in the later novel are not on 



6 


Introduction 


quite so grand a scale, they are, perhaps, more natural, more 
credible, than in Ivanhoe. We may say the same thing 
regarding the characters. The deeds of the Scottish archer 
are more comprehensible than the extraordinary achievements 
of the Saxon knight; and the characterization in Quentin 
Durward is, on the whole, more convincingly human than it 
is in Ivanhoe. 

Received rather coolly at first, Quentin Durward became 
exceedingly popular, and has maintained its popularity to the 
present day. Indeed, by some of the critics it is considered 
one of the best of the Waverley novels. 


A LIST OF THE CHARACTERS APPEARING IN 


1 ^ 1 . 

2 . 

3 . 

4 . 

5 . 

6 . 

k" s: 

9 . 

10 . 

11 . 

12 . 

13 . 

14 . 

vf. 

17 . 

18 . 

19 . 

20 . 
21 . 


22 . 

23 . 

24 . 

25 . 

26 . 

27 . 

28 . 

29 . 

30 . 


QUENTIN DURWARD 


his daughters. 


Louis XL, King of France. 

Princess Anne 
Princess Joan 
Quentin Durward, a Scottish archer. 

Ludovic Lesly (Le Balafre), his uncle. 

Lord Crawford, Captain of the Scottish Guard. 
Duke of Orleans, heir to the French crown. 
Count de Dunois, France’s “best champion.” 


Cardinal Balue, the King’s almoner.^ 

Oliver le Dain, Louis’ barber and chief counsellor. 
Galeotti Martivalle, the astrologer. 

Tristan L’Hermite, Provost-Marshal. 


Petit Andre | assistants. 

Trois Eschelles \ 

Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy. 

Isabelle de Croye, a vassal of Burgundy. 

Hameline de Croye, Isabelle’s aunt. 

Philip de Crevecoeur, Marshal of the Duke of Burgundy. 
Countess de Crevecoeur, his wife. 

Count Stephen, his nephew. 

Philip des Comines, a Burgundian statesman and historian 
whose Memoires form the principal source of the historical 
material in this book. 

Baron D’Hymbercourt, the Duke’s Quartermaster-General. 

Le Glorieux (Tiel Wetzweiler), the Duke’s jester. 

Toison d’Or, the Burgundian herald. 

Hayraddin Maugrabin ) African Moors or Gypsies, 

Zamet Maugrabin i employed by Louis. 

Marthon, also a Moor, the treacherous waiting-woman to the 

ladies of Croye. 

Bishop of Liege. 

The Bishop’s Chaplain. 

Rouslaer, Burgomaster of Liege. 


17 


18 

31 . 

32 . 

33 . 

34 . 

35 . 
/ 36 . 

37 . 

38 , 
39 

40 . 

41 . 

42 . 

43 . 

44 . 

45 . 

46 . 

47 . 

48 . 

49 . 

50 . 

51 . 

52 . 

53 . 

54 . 

55 . 


Quentin Durward 

Herman Pavillon, Syndic of Liege. 

Mother Mabel, his wife. 

Gertrude Pavillon (Trudchen), his daughter. 

Hans Glover, Gertrude’s “bachelor.” 

Peter Geislaer, Pavilion’s lieutenant. • 

William de la Marck, the Wild Boar of Ardennes. 

Carl Eberson, his son. 

. Conrad Horst, a soldier in de la March’s service. 

. Claus Hammerlein, a drunken and rebel citizen of Liege. 

. JaIKkel Blok, a butcher of Liege. 

"‘dr/a !n the service of 

Burgundy’s unscrupulous 
Apili proposed as husband for the Countess de Croye. 

Abbess of the Ursuline Convent. '-roye. 

Prior of the Franciscan Convent. 

Father Francis, a Franciscan Friar. 

Morn.^y, Seneschal at Peronne. 

Arnot 

Archie Cunningham 
Johnnie Guthrie 
Lindesay 
Tyrie 

Andrew, a yeoman 
Will Harper, a page j 
Bertrand Guyot, a Gascon soldier. 

Charlot, a groom. 


Scottish archers of the King’s Guard. 


attending Ludovic Lesly. 



Chronology and Summary of Scott’s Career 


19 


1771 Born at Edinburgh, August 15. 

1773 Taken to Sandyknowe. 

1778 Returned to Edinburgh. 

1778 Entered the High School. 

1785 Entered his father’s office to study law. 

1788 Attended law classes at the University. 

1792 Admitted to the Bar. 

1796 Translated Burger’s Lenore. 

1797 Married to Charlotte Mary Carpenter, daughter of a French 

refugee. 

1799 Made sheriff deputy of Selkirkshire; published a version of 

Goethe’s Goetz ‘von Ecrlichingen, 

1800 Wrote The E<i'e of St. John. 

1802-3 Published three volumes of Border Minstrelsy. 

1805 The Lay of the Last Minstrel; became a silent partner in the 

publishing house of the Ballentynes. 

1806 Edited Dryden’s Works (18 volumes). 

1808 Marmion. 

1810 The Lady of the Lake. 

1811 Bought Abbotsford; The Vision of Don Roderick. 

1813 Rokeby; The Bridal of Trier main. 

1814 Life of S^oift; JV aver ley. 

1815 The Lord of the Isles; Guy Mannering. 

1816 The Antiquary; The Black Dwarf; Old Mortality. 

1818 Rob Roy ; The Heart of Midlothian. 

1819 The Bride of Lammermoor; A Legend of Montrose. 

1820 Ivanhoe ; The Monastery ; The Abbot; made a baronet by 

George IV. 

1821 Kenilworth ; The Pirate. ^ 

1822 The Fortunes of Nigel. 

1823 Pe-veril of the Peak; Quentin Durward. 

1824 St. Ronan’s Well; Redgauntlet, 

1825 The Betrothed; The Talisman. 

1826 Woodstock ; failure of the publishing house of the Ballentynes; 

death of Lady Scott. 

1827 Life of Napoleon Bonaparte (9 volumes). 

1828 The Fair Maid of Perth. , 

1829 Anne of Geierstein. 

1830 Suffered severe attack of paralysis. 

1831 Departed for Italy; Count Robert of Paris; Castle Dangerous. 

1832 Returned to Abbotsford; died, September 21. 







BIBLIOGRAPHY 


The Life of Scott, by his son-in-law, J. G. Lockhart, is 
the authoritative biography. 

The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, edited by David Doug¬ 
las, covers the period of his later life. 

The General Preface to the edition of the Waverley 
Novels (1829) is full of interesting autobiography concerning 
his youth. 

Sir Walter Scott (English Men of Letters Series), by R. 
H. Hutton, is the best short biography. 

The Life of Scott (Great Writers Series), by C. D. 
Yonge, contains an extended bibliography. 

•There is a Life of Scott by G. E. Saintsbury, and also one 
by Andrew Lang, both published by Scribners. 

Recollections of Sir Walter Scott, by R. P. Gillis, and 
Domestic Manners and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott, 
by James Hogg, are of lighter character^. 

Abbotsford, by Washington Irving, is a pleasant sketch of 
the novelist in his home. 

Scott (in Encyclopaedia Britannica), by William Minto, 
and Scott (in Chambers' Encyclopaedia) y by Andrew Lang, 
are authoritative and concise. 


20 


QUENTIN DURWARD 

CHAPTER I. 


THE CONTRAST 


Look here upon this picture, and on this, 

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 

Hamlet. 


The latter part of the fifteenth century prepared a train 
of future events, that ended by raising France to that state of 
formidable power which has ever since been, from time to time, 
the principal object of jealousy to the other European nations. 
Before that period she had to struggle for her very existence 
with the English, already possessed of her fairest provinces; 
‘'while the utmost exertions of her king, and the gallantry^ of 
her people, could scarcely protect the remainder from a foreign 
yoke.' Nor was this her sole danger. The princes who pos¬ 
sessed the grand fiefs “ of the crown, and, in particular, the 
Dukes of Buruundv and Bretagne, had come to wear their 
feudal bonds so lightly, that they had no scruple in liftmg the 
standard against their liege and sovereign lord, the King of 
France, on the slightest pretence. When at peace, they reigned 
as absolute princes in their own provinces; and the house of 
Burgundy, possessed of the district so called, together with the 
faifest and richest part of Flanders, was itself so wealthy and 
so powerful as to yield nothing to the crown, either in splen- 

- dour or in strength. ^ ^ . r • ^ 

In imitation of the grand feudatories,'^ each inferior vassal 

of the crown assumed as much independence as his distance 
from the sovereign power, the extent of his fief, or the strength 


il„ the Enslish were finally defeated by the French and cornpdled to re- 

,inauirtSci;l,?s"fnVrance Two the northern coast, Ca,a„ and 

the sovere“en and held by the vassal as private 

'’'°'’.TeLnL“".‘*‘‘Feudtl‘lorf^ tilled their provinces under feudal 

law, as vassals, or servants, of the king. 


21 





i ““ Q.uentix Durward 

I of his chateau, enabled him to maintain; and these petty 
tyrants, no longer amenable to the exercise of the law., per¬ 
petrated with impunity the wildest excesses of fantastic 
oppression and cruelt}^ In Auvergne alone, a report was 
made of more than three hundred of these independent nobles, 
to whom incest, murder, and rapine were the most ordinary 
and familiar actions. 

Besides these evils, another, springing out of the long- 
continued wars betwixt the French and English,- added no 
small misery to this distracted kingdom. Numerous bodies of 
so diers, collected into bands, under officers chosen by them- 
selves from among the bravest and most successful adventurers 
had been formed in various parts of France out of the refuse 
of all other countries. These hireling combatants sold their 
swords for a time to the best bidder; and when such service 
was not to be had, they made war on their own account, seiz¬ 
ing castles and towers, which they used as the places of their 
retreat, making prisoners and ransoming them, exacting tribute 
rom the open villages and the countrv around them and 
acquiring by every species of rapine, the appropriate epithets 
of and ecorcheurs. that is, “clippers” and “flayers.” 

In the midst of the horrors and miseries arising from so 
distracted a state of public affairs, reckless and profuse expense 
distinguished the courts of the lesser nobles, as well as of the 
superior princes; and their dependents, in imitation, expended 
m rude but magnificent display the wealth which they extorted 
rom the people. A tone of romantic and chivalrous gallantrv 
which, however, was often disgraced bv unbounded license’ 
characterised the intercourse between’ the sexes; and the 
language of knight-errantry was yet used, and its observances 
followed, though the pure spirit of honourable love and benev¬ 
olent enterprise which it inculcates had ceased to qualifv and 
atone for its extravagances. The jousts and tournaments ' the 
entertainments and revels, which each petty court displayed, 

ters; to.irname'it?“snm'?fhips tour^ev o^’*ar- 

words were used for the mock combats’of mounted kn4hts^^^ 


23 


Qlextix Durward 

invited to France every wandering adventurer; and it was 
seldom that, when arrived there, he failed to employ his rash 
courage and headlong spirit of enterprise in actions for which 
his happier native country afforded no free stage. 

At this period, and as if to save this fair realm from the 
-various woes with which it was menaced, the tottering throne 
was ascended by Louis XL, whose character, evil as it was in 
itself, met, combated, and in a great degree neutralized, the 
mischiefs of the time—as poisons of opposing qualities are said 
in ancient books of medicine, to have the power of counter¬ 
acting each other. 

Brave enough for every useful and political purpose, Louis 
had not a spark of that romantic valour, or of the pride gen¬ 
erally associated with it, which fought on for the point of 
honour, when the point of utility had been long gained. Calm, 
crafty, and profoundly attentive to his own interest, he made 
every sacrifice, both of pride and passion, which could interfere 
with it. He was careful in disguising his real sentiments and 
purposes from all who approached him, and frequently used 
the expressions, “That the king knew not how to reign who 
knew hot how to dissemble; and that, for himself, if he 
thought his very cap knew his secrets, he would throw it into 
the fire.” No man of his own or of any other time better 
understood how to avail himself of the frailties of others, and 
when to avoid giving any advantage by the untimely indul¬ 
gence of his own. 

He was by nature vindictive and cruel, even to the extent 
of finding pleasure in the frequent executions which he com¬ 
manded. But, as no touch of mercy ever induced him to spare 
when he could with safety * condemn, so no sentiment of 
vengeance ever stimulated him to a premature violence. He 
seldom sprung on his prey till it was fairly within his grasp, 
and till all hope of rescue was vain; and his movements were 
so studiously disguised that his success was generally what 
first announced to the world the object he had been manoeu¬ 
vring to attain. 



24 


QuExVTIN Durward 


In like manner, the avarice of Louis gave way to apparent 
profusion, when it was necessary to bribe the favourite or 
minister of a rival prince for averting any impending attack, 
or to break up any alliance confederated against him. He was 
fond of license and pleasure; but neither beauty nor the chase,, 
though both were ruling passions, ever withdrew him from the 
most regular attendance to public business and the affairs of 
his kingdom. His knowledge of mankind was profound, and 
he had sought it in the private walks of life, in which he often 
personally mingled; and, though naturally proud and haughty, 
he hesitated not, with an inattention to the arbitrary divisions 
of society which was then thought something portentously 
unnatural, to raise from the lowest rank men whom he 
employed on the most important duties, and knew so well 
how to choose them, that he was rarely disappointed in their 
qualities. 

Yet there were contradictions in the character of this 
artful and able monarch; for human nature is rarely uniform. 
Himself the most false and insincere of mankind, some of the 
greatest errors of his life^arose from too rash a confidence in 
the honour and integrity of others. When these errors took 
place, they seem to have arisen from an over-refined system of 
policy, which induced Louis to assume the appearance of 
undoubting confidence in those whom it was his object to 
overreach; for, in his general conduct, he was as jealous and 
suspicious as any tyrant who ever breathed. 

Two other points may be noticed to complete the sketch of 
this formidable character, by which he rose among the rude 
chivalrous sovereigns of the period to the rank of a keeper 
among wild beasts, who by superior wisdopi and policy, by 
distribution of food, and some discipline by blows, comes 
finally to predominate over those who, if unsubjected by his 
arts, would by main strength have torn him to pieces. 

The first of these attributes was Louis’s excessive super¬ 
stition—a plague with which Heaven often afflicts those who 
icfuse to listen to the dictates of religion. The remorse arising 




Quentin Durward 25 

from his evil actions, Louis never endeavoured to appease by 
any relaxation in his Machiavellian^ stratagems, but laboured, 
in vain, to soothe and silence that painful feeling by super¬ 
stitious observances, severe penance, and profuse gifts to the 
ecclesiastics. The second property, with which the first is 
sometimes found strangely united, was a disposition to low 
pleasures and obscure debauchery. The wisest, or at least the 
most crafty, sovereign of his time, he was fond of low life, 
and,beinghimself a man of wit, enjoyed the jests and repartees 
of social conversation more than could have been expected 
from other points of his character. He even mingled in the 
comic adventures of obscure Intrigue, with a freedom little 
consistent with the habitual and guarded jealousy of his 
character; and he was so fond of this species of humble 
gallantry, that he caused a number of its gay and licentious 
anecdotes to be enrolled in a collection well known to book- 
collectors, in whose eyes (and the work is unfit for any other) 
the right edition is very precious. 

By means of this monarch’s powerful and prudent, though 
most unamiable, character, it pleased Heaven, who works by 
the tempest as well as by the soft small rain, to restore to the 
great French nation the benefits of civil government, which, at 
the time of his accession, they had nearly lost. 

Ere he succeeded to the crown, Louis had given evidence 
of his vices rather than of his talents. His first wife, Margaret 
of Scotland," was “done to death by slanderous tongues” in 
her husband’s court, where, but for the encouragement^ of 
Louis himself, not a word would have been breathed against 
that amiable and injured princess. He had been an ungrateful 
and a rebellious son, at one time conspiring to seize his father’s 
person, and at another levying open war against him. For the 


i\1achiavellian. Niccolo Machiavelli was a Florentine statesman of the 
sixteenth centary, famous for certain vicious doctrines among which was oue 
that rulers may commit every treacherous and unlawful act in the interests of 


strong government. 

niar^aret. Daughter of James I. of Scotland; her marriage to Louis took 
nlace in 14.S6. 



26 


Quextix Durw.\rd 

first offence, he was banished to his appanage ^ of Dauphine, 
which he governed with much sagacity; for the second, he was 
driven into absolute exile, and forced to throw himself on the 
mercy, and almost on the charity, of the Duke of Burgundy 
and his son, where he enjoyed hospitality, afterwards indiffer¬ 
ently requited, until the death of his father in 1461 . 

In the very outset of his reign, Louis was almost over¬ 
powered by a league formed against him by the great vassals 
of France, with the Duke of Burgundy, or rather his son, the 
Count de Charalois, at its head. They levied a powerful 
army, blockaded Paris, fought a battle of doubtful issue under 
its very walls, and placed the French monarchy on the brink 
of actual destruction. It usuall}^ happens in such cases tfiat 
the more sagacious general of the two gains the real fruit, 
though perhaps not the martial fame, of the disputed field! 
Louis, who had shown great personal bravery during the 
battle of Monti hery," was able, by his prudence, to avail 
himself of its undecided character, as if it had been a victory 
on his side. He temporised until the enemy had broken up 
their leaguer, and showed so much dexterity in sowing jeal- < 
ousies among those great powers, that their alliance “for the 
public weal,” as they termed it, but in reality for the over¬ 
throw of all but the external appearance of the French 
monarchy, dissolved itself, and was never again renewed in a 
manner so formidable. From this period, Louis, relieved of 
all danger from England by the civil wars of York and Lan¬ 
caster, was^ engaged for several years, like an unfeeling but 
able physician, in curing the wounds of the body politic, or 
rather in stopping, now by gentle remedies, now by the'use 
of fire and steel, the progress of those mortal gangrenes with 
which it was then infected. The brigandage of the Free Com¬ 
panies,^ and the unpunished oppressions of the nobility, he 


^Appanage. Lands set aside for the maintenance of a prince or princess. 
^MonU’hery. 1465. 


^Fyee Companies. Mercenary troops owning no master exceot their 
captains, who sold their services to whomsoever Lid thefn best. 


27 


Quentin Durward 

laboured to lessen, since he could not actually stop them; and, 
by dint of unrelaxed attention, he gradually gained some addi¬ 
tion to his own regal authority, or effected some diminution of 
those by whom it was counterbalanced. 

Still the King of France was surrounded by doubt and 
danger. The members of the league “lor the public weal,” 
^ though not in unison, were in existence, and, like a scotched ^ 
snake, might re-unite and become dangerous again. But a 
worse danger was the increasing power of the Duke of Bur¬ 
gundy, then one of the greatest princes of Europe, and little 
diminished in rank by the very slight dependence of his duchy 
upon the crown of France. 

Charles, surnamed the Bold, or rather the Audacious, for 
his courage was allied to rashness and frenzy, then wore the 
ducal coronet of Burgundy, which he burned to convert into a 
royal and independent regal crown. The character of this 
duke was in every respect the direct contrast to that of 
Louis XI. 

The latter was calm, deliberate, and crafty, never prose¬ 
cuting a desperate enterprise, and never abandoning one likely 
to be successful, however distant the prospect. The genius of 
the Duke was entirely different. Fie rushed on danger because 
he loved it, and on difficulties because he despised them. As 
Louis never sacrificed his interest to his passion, so Charles, on 
the other hand, never sacrificed his passion, or even his 
humour, to any other consideration. Notwithstanding the 
near relationship that existed between them, and the support 
which the Duke and his father had afforded to Louis in his 
exile when Dauphin, there v/as mutual contempt and hatred 
betwixt them. The Duke of Burgundy despised the cautious 
policy of the King, and imputed to the faintness of his courage, 
that he sought by leagues, purchases, and other indirect means 
those advantages which, in his place, the Duke would have 
snatched with an armed hand. He likewise hated the King, 


^Scotched. Bruised, slightly wounded. 

“We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it .”—Macbeth III. 2, 13. 




28 


Quentin Durward 

not only for the ingratitude he had manifested for former 
kindnesses, and for personal injuries and imputations which ' 
the ambassadors of Louis had cast upon him when his father 
was yet alive, but also,, and especially, because of the support j 
which he afforded in secret to tlie discontented citizens of ; 
Ghent, Liege, and other great towns in Flanders. These 
turbulent cities, jealous of their privileges and proud of their 
wealth, were frequently in a state of insurrection against their 
liege lords the Dukes of Burgundy, and never failed to find 
underhand countenance at the court of Louis, who embraced 
every opportunity of fomenting disturbance within the 
dominions of his overgrown vassal. 

The contempt and hatred of the Duke were retaliated by s 
Louis with equal energy, though he used a thicker veil to' 
conceal his sentiments. It was impossible for a man of his: 
profound sagacity not to despise the stubborn obstinacy which 
never resigned its purpose, however fatal perseverance might' 
prove, and the headlong impetuosity which commenced its 
career without allowing a moment’s consideration for the 
obstacles to be encountered. Yet the King hated Charles even 
more than he contemned him, and his scorn and hatred were 
the more intense that they w^re mingled with fear; for he 
knew that the onset of the mad bull, to whom' he likened the^ 
Duke of Burgundy, must ever be formidable though the 
animal makes it with shut eyes. It was not alone the wealth 
of the Burgundian provinces, the discipline of the w^arlike 
inhabitants, and the mass of their crowded population, which 
the King dreaded ; for the personal qualities of their leader had 
also much in them that was dangerous. The very soul of 
bravery—which he pushed to the verge of rashness, and beyond'! 
it—profuse in expenditure, splendid in his court, his person, j 
and his retinue, in all which he displayed the hereditary mag¬ 
nificence of the house of Burgundy, Charles the Bold drew 
into his service almost all the fiery spirits of the age whose 
tempers were congenial; and Louis saw too clearly whati 
might be attempted and executed by such a train of resolute 






Quentin Durward 29 

adventurers, following a leader of a character as ungovernable 
as their own. 

There was yet another circumstance which increased the 
animosity of Louis towards his overgrown vassal: he owed 
him favours which he never meant to repay, and was under 
the frequent necessity of temporising with him, and even of 
enduring bursts of petulant insolence, injurious to the regal 
dignity, without being able to treat him otherwise than as his 
“fair cousin of Burgundy.” 

It was about the year 1468, when their feuds were at the 
highest, though a dubious and hollow truce, as frequently hap¬ 
pened, existed for the time betwixt them, that the present 
narrative opens. The person first introduced on the stage will 
be found indeed to be of a rank and condition the illustration 
of whose character scarcely called for a dissertation on the 
relative position of two great princes; but the passions of the 
great, their quarrels, and their reconciliations, involve the 
fortunes of all who approach them; and it will be found, on 
proceeding farther in our story, that this preliminary chapter 
is necessarv for comprehending the history of the individual 
whose adventures we are about to relate. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE WANDERER 

Why then the world is my oyster, which I with sword will open. 

Ancient Pistol. 

It was upon a delicious summer morning, before the sun 
had assumed its scorching power, and while the dews yet 
cooled and perfumed the air, that a youth, coming from the 
northeastward, approached the ford of a small river, or rather 
a large brook, tributary to the Cher, near to the royal Castle 
of Plessis-les-Tours, whose dark and multiplied battlements 
rose in the background over the-extensive forest with which 
they were surrounded. These woodlands comprised a noble 
chase, or royal park, fenced by an inclosure, termed, in the 
Latin of the middle ages, plexitiuin, which gives the name of 
Plessis to so many villages in France. I'he castle and village 
of which we particularly speak was called Plessis-les-Tours, to 
distinguish it from others, and was built about two miles to 
the southward of the fair town of that name, the capital of 
ancient Touraine, whose rich plain has been termed the 
Garden of France. 

-On the bank of the above-mentioned brook, opposite to 
that which the traveller was approaching, two men, who 
appeared in deep conversation, seemed, from time to time, to 
watch his motions; for, as their station was much more 
elevated, they could remark him at considerable distance. 

The age of the young traveller might be about nineteen, or 
betwixt that and twenty, and his face and person, which were 
very prepossessing, did not, however, belong to the country in 
which he was now a sojourner. His short grey cloak and hose 
were rather of Flemish than of French fashion, while the 
smart blue bonnet,, with a single sprig of holly and an eagle’s 


30 


31 


Quentin Durward 

feather, was already recognised as the Scottish head-gear. His 
dress was very neat, and arranged with the precision of a 
youth conscious of possessing a fine person. He had at his 
back a satchel, which seemed to contain a few necessaries, a 
hawking gauntlet on his left hand, though he carried no bird, 
and in his right a stout hunter’s pole. Over his left shoulder 
hung an embroidered scarf which sustained a small pouch of 
scarlet velvet, such as was then used by fowlers of distinction 
to carry their hawks’ food, and other matters belonging to 
that much admired sport. This was crossed by another 
; shoulder-belt, to which was hung a hunting-knife, or couteau 
: de chasse. Instead of the boots of the period, he wore buskins 
of half-dressed deer’s-skin. 

Although his form had not yet attained its full strength, 
he was tall and active, and the lightness of the step with which 
he advanced showed that his pedestiian mode of travelling was 
pleasure rather than pain to him. His complexion was faij, 
in spite of a general shade of darker- hue, with which the 
foreign sun, or perhaps constant exposure to the atmosphere in 
his own country, had in some degree embrowned it. 

His features, without being quite regular, w^re frank, 
open, and pleasing. A half smile, which seemed to arise from 
a happy exuberance of animal spirits, showed, now and then, 
that his teeth w^ere well set, and as pure as ivory; whilst his 
bright blue eye, with a corresponding gaiety, had an appro¬ 
priate glance for every object which it encountered, expressing 
good-humour, lightness of heart, and determined resolution. 

He received and returned the salutation of the few travel¬ 
lers who frequented the road in those dangerous times with 
the action which suited each. The strolling spearman, half 
soldier, half brigand, measured the youth with his eye, as if 
balancing the prospect of booty with the chance of desperate 
resistance; and read such indications of the latter in the fear¬ 
less glance of the passenger, that he changed his ruffian 
purpose for a surly “Good morrow, comrade,” which the 
5 'oung Scot answered with as martial, though a less sullen, 





32 


Quentin Durward 

tone. The wandering pilgrim or the begging friar answered 
his reverend greeting with a paternal benedicite, and the 
dark-eyed peasant girl looked after him for many a step after 
they had passed each other, and interchanged a laughing “good 
morrow.” In short, there was an attraction about his whole 
appearance not easily escaping attention, and which was 
derived from the combination of fearless frankness and good-' 
humour with sprightly looks and a handsome face and person. 
It seemed, too, as if his wdiole demeanour bespoke one who 
w^as entering on life w ith no apprehension of the evils wuth 
which it is beset, and small means for struggling wdth its hard¬ 
ships, except a lively spirit and a courageous disposition; and 
it is w’ith such tempers that youth most readily sympathises, 
and for whom chiefly age and experience feel affection and 
pitying interest. i 

The youth whom w^e have described had been long visible^ 
to the two persons who loitered on the opposite side of the 
small river which divided him from the park and the castle; 
but as he descended the rugged bank to the water’s edge, with 
the light step of a roe w^hich visits the fountain, the younger of 
the tw^o said to the other, “It is our man—it is the Bohemian! 
If he attempts to cross the ford, he is a lost man: the w^ater 
is up, and the ford impassable.” 

“Let him make that discovery himself, gossip,”^ said the 
elder personage; “it may, perchance, save a rope,, and break a 
proverb.” • I 

“I judge him by the blue cap,” said the other, “for L 
cannot see his face. Hark, sir; he hallooes to know whether] 
the water be deep.” ' 

“Nothing like experience in this world,” answered the 
other: “let him try.” 

The young man, in the meanwhile, receiving no hint to 
the contrary, and taking the silence of those to whom he 
applied as an encouragement to proceed, entered the stream' 

^Gossip. From the Anglo-Saxon Godsibb, related in God, as a sponsor in 
baptism; commonly used, as here, of a neighbor or friend. 



Quentin Durward 33 

without farther hesitation than the delay necessary to take off 
his buskins. T he elder person, at the same moment,, hallooed 
to him to beware, adding, in a lower tone, to his companion, 
Mortdieu} gossip, 3'ou have made another mistake; this is 
not the Bohemian chatterer.” 

But the intimation to the youtli came too late. He either 
did not hear or could not profit by it, being already in the deep 
stream. To one less alert and practised in the exercise of 
swimming, death had been certain, for the brook was both 
deep and strong. 

“By St. Anne! but he is a proper youth,” said the elder 
man. “ Run, gossip, and help your blunder b}^ givung him aid, 
if thou canst. He belongs to thy own troop; if old saws “ 
speak truth, water will not drown him.” 

Indeed, the young traveller swam so strongly, and buffeted 
the waves so well, that, notwithstanding the strength of the 
current, he was carried but a little way down from the ordi¬ 
nary landing-place. 

By this time the younger of the two strangers was hurry¬ 
ing down to the shore to render assistance, while the other 
followed him at a graver pace, saying to himself as he 
approached, “I knew water would never drown that young 
fellow. By m.y halidome,^ he is ashore, and grasps his pole I 
If I make not the more haste, he will beat my gossip for 
the only charitable action which I ever saw him perform, or 
attempt to perform, in the whole course of his life.” 

There -was some reason to augur such a conclusion of 
the adventure, for the bonny Scot had already accosted the 
younger Samaritan, who was hastening to his assistance, with 
these ireful words—“Discourteous dog! why did you not 

^Mortdieu. God’s death. 

2 OW saws. Saw, in this sense, is derived from Icelandic saga, a saying. What 
is the proverb referred to here, and on the preceding page? The significance of 
.the sentence “He belongs to thy own troop,’’ will appear later when the identity 
of these characters is revealed. 

^ Halidome. Something possessing virtue because of its sanctity, a relic; the 
word came to mean, therefore, one’s sacred honor. 


34 


Quentin Durward 

answer when I called to know if the passage was fit to be 
attempted? May the foul fiend catch me, but I will teach 
you the respect due to strangers on the next occasion!” 

This was accompanied with that significant flourish with 
his pole which is called le inoulinet,^ because the artist, hold¬ 
ing it in the middle, brandishes the two ends in every direction, 
like the sails of a windmill in motion. His opponent, seeing 
himself thus menaced, laid hand upon his sword, for he was 
one of those who on all occasions are more ready for action 
than for speech; but his more considerate comrade, who came 
up, commanded him to forbear, and, turning to the young 
man, accused him in turn of precipitation in plunging into 
the swollen ford, and of intemperate violence in quarrelling 
with a man who was hastening to his assistance. 

The young man, on hearing himself thus reproved by a 
man of advanced age and respectable appearance, immediately 
lowerM his weapon, and said, “He would be sorry if he had 
done them injustice; but, in reality, it appeared to him as if 
they had suffered him to put his life in peril for want of a 
word of timely warning, which could be the part neither of 
honest men nor of good Christians, far less of respectable 
burgesses, such as they seemed to be.” 

“Fair son,” said the elder person, “you seem, from your 
accent and complexion, a stranger; and you should recollect 
your dialect is not so easily comprehended by us as perhaps it 
may be uttered by you.” 

“Well, father,” answered the youth, “I do not care much 
about the ducking I have had, and I will readily forgive your 
being partly the cause, provided you will direct me to some 
place where I can have my clothes dried; for it is my only 
suit, and I must keep it somewhat decent.” 

“For whom do you take us, fair son?” said the elder 
stranger, in answer to this question. 

“For substantial burgesses, unquestionably,” said the 


il-e moulinet. A small mill. 


Quentin Durward 35 

youth; or, hold you, master, may be a money-broker or a 
corn-meichant, and this man a butcher or grazierd' 

“You have hit our capacities rarely,” said the elder, smil¬ 
ing. “My business is indeed to trade in as much money as 
I can; and my gossip’s dealings are somewhat of kin to the 
butcher’s. As to your accommodation, we will try to serve 
}ou; but I must first know who you are, and whither you 
are going; for,, in these times, the roads are filled with travel¬ 
lers on foot and horseback who have anything in their head 
but honesty and the fear of God.” 

T he y'oung man cast another keen and penetrating glance 
on him who spoke, and on his silent companion, as if doubtful 
whether the)^ on their part, merited the confidence they 
demanded; and the result of his observation was as follows: 

The eldest and most remarkable of these men, in dress 
and appearance, resembled the merchant or shopkeeper of the 
period. His jerkin, hose, and cloak ^ were of a dark uniform 
colour, but worn so threadbare that the acute young Scot 
conceived that the w^earer must be either very rich or very 
poor, probably the former. The fashion of the dress was 
close and short—a kind of garments which were not then 
I held decorous among gentry, or even the superior class of 
I citizens, who generally w^ore loose gowns which descended 
below the middle of the leg. 

The expression of this man’s countenance was partly 
attractive and partly forbidding. His strong features, sunk 
cheeks, and hollow eyes had, nevertheless, an expression of 
shrewdness and humour congenial to the character of the 
young adventurer. But then, those same sunken eyes, from 
! under the shroud of thick black eyebrow^s, had something in 
them that was at once commanding and sinister. Perhaps 
this effect was increased by the low fur cap, much depressed 
on the forehead, and adding to the shade from under which 
those eyes peered out; but it is certain that the young stranger 
had some difficulty to reconcile his looks with the meanness 

^Jerkin, hose, and cloak. The ordinary costume of the period. The jerkin 
was a close fitting short coat, or jacket; the hose extended from waist to toe. 





36 


Quentin Durward 

of his appearance in other respects. His cap, in particular, . 
in which all men of any quality displayed either a brooch of 
gold or of silver, was ornamented with a paltry image of the ^ 
Virgin, in lead, such as the poorer sort of pilgrims bring from- ! 
Loretto.^ ! 

His comrade was a stout-formed, middle-sized man, more ^ 
than ten years younger than his companion, with a down- ■ 
looking visage and a very ominous smile, when by chance he ■ | 
gave way to that impulse, which was never, except in reply to 
certain secret signs that seemed to pass between him and the 
elder stranger. This man was armed with a sword and dag¬ 
ger; and, underneath his plain habit, the Scotsman observed 
that he concealed a jazeran, or flexible shirt of linked mail, i 
which., as being often worn by those, even of peaceful pro- ! 
fessions, who were called upon at that perilous period to be | 
frequently abroad, confirmed the young man in his conjecture J 
that the wearer was by profession a butcher, grazier, or some- i 
thing of that description, called upon to be much abroad. 

The young stranger, comprehending in one glance the 
result of the observation which has taken us some time to 
express, answered, after a moment’s pause, “I am ignorant 
whom I may have the honour to address,” making a slight 
reverence at the same time; “but I am indifferent who knows 
that I am a cadet ^ of Scotland, and that I come to seek my 
fortune in France, or elsewhere, after the custom of my coun¬ 
trymen.” 

"Pasques-dieu!^ and a gallant custom it is,” said the elder 
stranger. “You seem a fine young springald,^ and at the right 
age to prosper, whether among men or women. What say 
you ? I am a merchant, and want a lad to assist in my traffic. 

I suppose you are too much a gentleman to assist in such 
mechanical drudgery?” 

1 Loreito. On the Adriatic coast of Italy; a famous shrine in which is preserved 
the reputed house in which the Virgin Mary lived at Nazareth. 

^Cadet. A gentleman volunteer. 

^Fasques-dieu. The favorite oath of Louis XL Pasques is equivalent to 
modern Pagues, Easter; the phrase then meaning, “The risen Lord! ” 

*Springald. A lively youth. 




37 


Quentin Durward 

“Fair sir,” said the youth, “if your offer be seriously made, 
of which I have my doubts, I am bound to thank you for it, 
and I thank you accordingly; but I fear I should be altogether 
unfit for your service.” 

“What!” said the senior, “I warrant thou knowest better 
how to draw the bow than how to draw a bill of charges— 
canst handle a broadsword better than a pen—ha!” 

“I am, master,,” answered the young Scot, “a braeman,^ 
and therefore, as we say, a bowman. But besides that, I have 
been in a convent, where the good fathers taught me to read 
and write, and even to cipher.” 

'^Pasques-dieu! that is too magnificent,” said the mer¬ 
chant. “By our Lady of Embrun,^ thou art a prodigy, man!” 

“Rest you merry, fair master,” said the youth, who was 
not much pleased with his new acquaintance’s jocularity, 
“I must go dry myself, instead of standing dripping here, 
answering questions.” 

The merchant only laughed louder as he spoke, and 
answered, ^^Pasques-dieu! the proverb never fails —fier comme 
un Ecossois;^ but come, youngster, you are of a country I have 
a regard for, having traded in Scotland in my time—an 
honest poor set of folks they are; and, if you will come 
with us to the village, I will bestow on you a cup of burnt 
sack and a warm breakfast, to atone for your drenching. 
But, the-hleau^ what do you with a hunting-glove on your 
hand ? Know you not there is no hawking permitted in a 
royal chase?” 

“I was taught that lesson,” answered the youth, “by a ras¬ 
cally forester of the Duke of Burgundy. I did but fly the 
falcon I had brought with me from Scotland, and that I 
reckoned on for bringing me into some note, at a heron 

I Braeman. One who lives on the northern slope oi the Grampian Hills. 

*OMr Lady of Emhrun. A figure of the Virgin kept in the church at Embrun 
and frequently addressed by Louis. 

^Fier comme un Ecossois. Proud as a Scotchman. 

*TSte-bleau. God’s head. 



38 


Quentin Durward 

near Peronne, and the rascally schelni ^ shot my bird with an 
arrow.” 

“What did you do?” said the merchant. 

“Beat him,” said the youngster, brandishing his staff, “as 
near to death as one Christian man should belabour another. 
I wanted not to have his blood to answer for.” 

“Know you,” said the burgess, “that, had you fallen into 
the Duke of Burgundy’s hands, he would have hung you up 
like a chestnut?” 

“Ay, I am told he is as prompt as the King of France for 
that sort of work. But, as this happened near Peronne, I 
made a leap over the frontiers, and laughed at him. If he 
had not been so hasty, I might perhaps have taken service 
with him.” 

“He will have a heavy miss of such a paladin “ as you are, 
if the truce should break off,” said the merchant, and threw a 
look at his own companion, who answered him with one of 
the downcast lowering smiles, which gleamed along his 
countenance, enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a 
winter sky. 

The young Scot suddenly stopped, pulled his bonnet over 
his right eyebrow, as one that would not be ridiculed, and 
said firmly, “My masters, and especially you, sir, the elder, 
and who should be the wiser, you will find, I presume, no 
sound or safe jesting at my expense. I do not altogether 
like the tone of your conversation. I can take a jest with 
any man, and a rebuke, too, from my elder, and say ‘Thank 
you, sir,’ if I know it to be deserved ; but I do not like being 
borne in hand as if I were a child, when, God wot, I find 
myself man enough to belabour you both, if you provoke me 
too far.” 

The eldest man seemed like to choke with laughter at the 
lad’s demeanour; his companion’s hand stole to his sword- 


^Schelm. (German). A rogue. 

‘'Paladin. Abrave warrior; especially used of thechief knightsof Charlemagne. 


39 


Quentin Durward 

.lilt,, which the youth observing dealt him a blow across the 
wrist, which made him incapable of grasping it; while his 
companion’s mirth was only increased by the incident. “Hold 
—hold,” he cried, “most doughty Scot, even for thine own 
dear country s sake; and you, gossip, forbear your menacing 
look.^ Pasques-dieu! let us be just traders, and set off the 
wetting against the knock on the wrist, which was given 
with so much grace and alacrity. And hark ye, my young 
friend, he said to the young man with a grave sternness 
which, in spite of all the youth could do, damped and over¬ 
awed him, “no more violence. I am no fit object for it, and 
my gossip, as you may see, has had enough of it. Let me 
know^ your name.” 

“I can answer a civil question civilly,” said the youth; 
“and will pay fitting respect to your age, if you do not urge 
my patience with mockery. Since I have been here in France 
and Flanders, men have called me, in their fantasy, the 
Varlet ^ with the Velvet Pouch, because of this hawk purse 
which I carry by my side; but my true name, when at home, 
j is Quentin Durward.” 

“Durward!” said the querist; “is it a gentleman’s name?” 

“By fifteen descents in our family,” said the young man; 
“and that makes me reluctant to follow any other trade than 
arms.” 

“A true Scot! Plenty of blood, plenty of pride, and right 
great scarcity of ducats, I warrant thee. Well, gossip,” he 
said to his companion, “go before us, and tell them to have 
some breakfast ready yonder at the Mulberry Grove; for 
this youth will do as much honour to it as a starved mouse 
to a housewife’s cheese. And for the Bohemian—hark in 
my ear-” 

His comrade answered by a gloomy but intelligent smile, 
and set forward at a round pace, while the elder man con¬ 
tinued, addressing yo'ung Durward—“You and I will walk 
leisurely forward together, and we may take a mass at St. 


^ Varlet . A boy, a page, or servant (compare valet ). 





40 


Quextix Durward 

Hubert’s chapel in our way through the forest; for it is not 
good to think of our fleshly before our spiritual wants.” 

Durward, as a good Catholic, had nothing to object against 
this proposal, although he might probably have been desirous, 
in the first place, to have dried his clothes and refreshed him¬ 
self. Meanwhile, they soon lost sight of their downward¬ 
looking companion, but continued to follow the same path 
which he had taken, until it led them into a wood of tall 
trees, mixed with thickets and brushwood, traversed by long 
avenues, through which were seen, as through a vista, the 
deer trotting in little herds with a degree of security which 
argued their consciousness of being completely protected. 

“You asked me if I were a good bowman,” said the young 
Scot. “Give me a bow and a brace of shafts, and you shall 
have a piece of venison in a moment.” 

^'Pasques-dieu! my young friend,” said his companion, 
“take care of that; my gossip yonder hath a special ej^e to the 
deer; they are under his charge, and he is a strict keeper.” 

“He hath more the air of a butcher than of a gay forester,” 
answered Durward. “I cannot think yon hang-dog look of 
his belongs to any one who knows the gentle rules of wood- 

craft.” ^ 

“Ah, my young friend,” answered his companion, “my 
gossip hath somewhat an ugly favour to look upon at the 
first; but those who become acquainted with him never are 
known to complain of him.” 

Quentin Durward found something singularly and dis¬ 
agreeably significant in the tone with which this was spoken; 
and, looking suddenly at the speaker, thought he saw in his 
countenance, in the slight smile that curled his upper lip,, and 
the accompanying twinkle of his keen dark eye, something to 
justify his unpleasing surprise. “I have heard of robbers,” 
he thought to himself, “and of wily cheats and cut-throats; 
what if yonder fellow be a murderer, and this old rascal his 
decoy-duck ? I will be on my guard; they will get little by 
me but good Scottish knocks.'^ 


Quentin Durward 4i 

While he was thus reflecting, they came to a glade, where 
the large forest trees were more widely separated from each 
other, and where the ground beneath, cleared of underwood 
and bushes, was clothed with a carpet of the softest and most 
lovely verdure, which, screened from the scorching heat of 
the sun, was here more beautifully tender than it is usually 
to be seen in France. The trees in this secluded spot were 
chiefly beeches and elms of huge magnitude, which rose like 
great hills of leaves into the air. Amidst these magnificent 
sons of the earth, there peeped out, in the most open°spot of 
the glade, a lowly chapel, near which trickled a small rivulet. 
Its architecture was of the rudest and most simple kind; and 
there was a very small lodge beside it, for the accommodation 
of a hermit or solitary priest, who remained there for reg¬ 
ularly discharging the duty of the altar. In a small niche, 
over the arched doorway, stood a stone image of St. Hubert,^ 
with the bugle-horn around his neck and a leash of grey¬ 
hounds at his feet. The situation of the chapel in the midst 
of a park or chase so richly stocked with game made the 
dedication to the sainted huntsmian peculiarly appropriate. 

Towards this little devotional structure the old man 
directed his steps, followed by 5 'oung Durward; and, as they 
approached, the priest, dressed in his sacerdotal garments, 
made his appearance, in the act of proceeding from his cell to 
the chapel, for the discharge, doubtless, of his holy office. 
Durward bowed his body reverently to the priest, as the 
respect due to his sacred office demanded; whilst his com¬ 
panion, with an appearance of still more deep devotion, 
kneeled on one knee to receive the holy man’s blessing, and 
then followed him ij^to church, with a step and manner 
expressive of the most heartfelt contrition and humility. 

The inside of the chapel was adorned in a manner adapted 
to the occupation of the patron saint while on earth. The 
richest furs of such animals as are made the objects of the 
chase in different countries supplied the place of tapestry and 

'St. Hubert. See Note 1 at end of the novel. 



43 


Quentin Durward 

hangings around the altar and elsewhere, and the character¬ 
istic emblazonments of bugles, bows, quivers, and other 
emblems of hunting, surrounded the walls, and were mingled 
with the heads of deer, wolves, and other animals considered 
beasts of sport. The whole adornments took an appropriate 
and silvan character; and the mass itself, being considerably 
shortened, proved to be of that sort which is called a “hunt¬ 
ing-mass,” because in use before the noble and powerful, who, 
while assisting at the solemnity, are usually impatient to 
commence their favourite sport. 

Yet, during this brief ceremony, Durward’s companion 
seemed to pay the most rigid and scrupulous attention; while 
Durward, not quite so much occupied with religious thoughts, 
could not forbcrr blaming himself in his own mind for having 
entertained suspicions derogatory to the character of so good 
and so humble a man. Far from now holding him as a com¬ 
panion and accomplice of robbers, he had much to do to 
forbear regarding him as a saint-like personage. 

When mass was ended, they retired together from the 
chapel, and the elder said to his young comrade, “It is but a 
short walk from hence to the village; you may now break 
your fast with an unprejudiced conscience; follow me.” 

Turning to the right, and proceeding along a path which 
seemed gradually to ascend, he recommended to his companion 
by no means to quit the track, but, on the contrary, to keep 
the middle of it as nearly as he could. Durward could not 
help asking the cause of this precaution. 

“You are now near the court, young man,” answered his 
guide; “and, Pasques-dieii! there is some difference betwixt 
walking in this region and on your OW41 heathy hills. Every 
yard of this ground, excepting the path which we now occupy, 
is rendered dangerous, and well-nigh impracticable, by snares 
and traps, armed with scythe-blades, which shred off the 
unwary passenger’s limb as sheerly as a hedge-bill lops a 
hawthorn-sprig, and calthrops^ that would pierce your foot 

Calthrops. Spiked iron balls. 


Quentin Durward 43 

through, and pitfalls deep enough to bury you in them for 
ever; for you are now within the precincts of the royal 
demesne, and we shall presently see the front of the chateau.” 

Were I the King of France,” said the young man, “I 
won d not take so much trouble with traps and gins, but 
would try instead to govern so well that no man should dare 
to come near my dwelling with a bad Intent; and for those 
who came there In peace and good-will, why, the more of 
them the merrier we should be.” 

His companion looked round affecting an alarmed gaze, 
and said “Hush-hush, Sir Varlet with the Velvet Pouch! 
for I forgot to tell you that one great danger of these precincts 
IS that the very leaves of the trees are like so manv ears, which 
carry all which is spoken to the King’s,own cabinet.” 

I care little for that, answered Quentin Durward; “I 
bear a Scottish tongue in my head hold enough to speak my 
mind to King Louis’s face, God bless him! and for the ears 
you talk of, if I could see them growing on a human head I 
would crop them out of it with my wood-knife.” 




CHAPTER III. 


THE CASTLE 

Full in the midst a mighty pile arose, 

Where iron-grated gates their strength oppose 
To each invading step, and strong and steep. 

The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk deep. 

Slow round the fortress rolled the sluggish stream, 

And high in middle air the warder’s turrets gleam. 

, Anonymous. 

While Durward and his new acquaintance thus spoke, 
they came in sight of the whole front of the Castle of Plessis- 
les-Tours, which, even in those dangerous times, when the 
great found themselves obliged to reside within places of 
fortified strength, was distinguished for the extreme and jeal¬ 
ous care with which it was watched and defended. 

From the verge of the wood where young Durward halted 
with his companion, in order to take a view of this royal resi¬ 
dence, extended, or rather arose, though by a very gentle 
elevation, an open esplanade, devoid of trees and bushes of 
every description, excepting one gigantic and half-withered 
old oak. This space was left open, according to the rules of 
fortification in all ages, in order that an enemy might not 
approach the walls under cover, or unobserved from the battle¬ 
ments; and beyond it arose the castle itself. 

There were three external walls, battlemented and turreted 
from space to space, and at each angle, the second inclosure 
rising higher than the first, and being built so as to command 
the exterior defence in case it was won by the enemy; and 
being again, in the same manner, itself commanded by the 
third and innermost barrier. Around the external wall, as the 
Frenchman informed his young companion (for, as they stood 
lower than the foundation of the wall, he could not see it). 


^4 


45 


Quentin Durward 

was sunk a ditch of about twenty feet in depth, supplied with 
water by a damhead on the river Cher, or rather on one of its 
tributary branches. In front of the second inclosure, he said, 
there ran another fosse and a third, both of the same unusual 
dimensions, was led between the second and the innermost 
indosure. The verge, both of the outer and inner circuit of 
this triple moat, was strongly fenced with palisades of iron, 
serving the purpose of what are called chevaux-de-frise in 
modern fortification, the top of each pale being divided into a 
cluster of sharp spikes, which seemed to render any attempt to 
climb over an act of self-destruction. 

From within the innermost inclosure arose the castle itself, 
containing buildings of different periods, crowded around and 
united with the ancient and grim-looking donjon-keep,- which 
was^ older than any of them, and which rose, like a black 
Ethiopian giant, high into the air, while the absence of any 
windows larger than shot-holes, irregularly disposed for 
defence, gave the spectator the same unpleasant feeling which 
we experience on looking at a blind man. The other buildings 
I seemed scarcely better adapted for the purposes of comfort, for 
the windows opened to an inner and inclosed courtyard j so 
that the whole external front looked much more like that of a 
prison than a palace. The reigning king had even increased 
this effect; for desirous that the additions which he himself 
had made to the fortifications should be of a character not 
easily distinguished from the original building (for, like many 
, jealous persons, he loved not that his suspicions should be 
‘ observed), the darkest-coloured brick and freestone were 
employed, and soot mingled with the lime, so as to give the 
' whole castle the same uniform tinge of extreme and rude 
antiquity. 

This formidable place had but one entrance, at least Dur¬ 
ward saw none along the spacious front except where, in the 

_ iposse. From the Latin /055a, a ditch; one of the half-dozen words retained 
' in English from the period of the Roman occupation of Britain. 

‘^Donjon-keep. A massive tower; the strongest portion of the fortification. 





46 


Quentin Durward 4 g 

center of the first and outer boundary, arose two strong 
towers, the usual defences of a gateway; and he could observe 
their ordinar^^ accompaniments, portcullis^ and drawbridge, of | 
which the first was lowered and the last raised. Similar 
entrance-towers were visible on the second and third bounding 
wall, but not in the same line with those on the outward cir¬ 
cuit; because the passage did not cut right through the w’hoie 
three inclosures at the same point, but, on the contrary, those 
who entered had to proceed nearly thirty j'ards betwixt the 
first and second wall, exposed, if their purpose were hostile, to 
missiles from both; and again, when the second boundary was 
passed, they must make' a similar digression from the straight 
line, in order to attain the portal of the third and innermost 
inclosure; so that before gaining the outer court, which ran 
along the front of the building, two narrow and dangerous 
defiles were to be traversed under a flanking discharge of 
artillery, and three gates, defended in the strongest manner 
known to the age, were to be successively forced. 

Coming from a country alike desolated by foreign war and 
internal feuds—a country, too, whose unequal and mountain¬ 
ous surface, abounding in precipices and torrents, affords so 
many situations of strength—young Durward was sufficiently 
acquainted with all the various contrivances by which men, in 
that stern age, endeavoured to secure their dwellings; but he 
frankly owned to his companion that he did not think it had 
been in the power of art to do so much for defence, where 
nature had done so little; for the situation, as we have hinted, 
was merely the summit of a gentle elevation ascending upwards 
from the place where they were standing. 

To enhance his surprise, his companion told him that the 
environs of the castle, except the single winding path by which 
the portal might be safely approached, were, like the thickets 
through which they had passed, surrounded with every species 
of hidden pitfall, snare, and gin, to entrap the wretch who 

1 Portcullis. A heavy grating of iron, or of timbers pointed with iron, sus¬ 
pended aijove the entrance to a castle and lowered to keep out intruders. 


47 


Quentin Durward 

should venture thither without a guide; that upon the walls 
were constructed certain cradles of iron, called “swallows’ 
nests,” from which the sentinels who were regularly posted 
there could, without being exposed to any risk, take deliberate 
aim at any who should attempt to enter without the proper 
signal or password of the day; and that the archers of the 
Royal Guard performed that duty day and night, for which 
they received high pay, rich clothing, and much honour and 
profit at the hands of King Louis. “And now tell me, young 
man,” he continued, “did you ever see so strong a fortress, and 
do you think there are men bold enough to storm it?” 

The young man looked long and fixedly on the place, the 
sight of which interested him so much that he had forgotten, 
in the eagerness of youthful curiosity, the wetness of his dress. 
His eye glanced, and his colour mounted to his cheek like that 
of a daring man who meditates an honourable action, as he 
replied, “It is a strong castle, and strongly guarded; but there 
is no impossibility to brave men.” 

“Are there any in your country who could do such a feat?” 
said the elder, rather scornfully. 

“I will not affirm that,” answered the youth, “but there 
are thousands that, in a good cause, would attempt as bold a 
deed.” 

“Umph!” said the senior, “perhaps you are yourself such a 
gallant ?” 

“I should sin if I were to boast where there is no danger,” 
answered young Durward; “but my father has done as bold 
an act, and I trust I am no bastard.” 

“Well,” said his companion, smiling, “you might meet 
your match, and your kindred withal, in the attempt; for the 
Scottish Archers of King Louis’s Life Guards stand sentinels 
on yonder walls—three hundred gentlemen of the best blood 
in your country.” 

“And were I King Louis,” said the youth, in reply, “I 
would trust my safety to the faith of the three hundred Scot¬ 
tish gentlemen, throw down my bounding walls to fill up the 



48 


Quentin Durward 

moat, call in my noble peers and paladins, and live as became 
me, amid breaking of lances in gallant tournaments, and feast¬ 
ing of days with nobles and dancing of nights with ladies., and 
have no more fear of a foe than I have of a fly.” j 

His companion again smiled, and turning his back on thej 
castle, which, he observed, they had approached a little tool 
nearly, he led the way again into the wood, by a more broad ■ 
and beaten path than they had yet trodden. “This,” he said, 
“leads us to the village of Plessis, as it is called, where 3^011,1 
as a stranger, will find reasonable and honest accommodation. 1 
About two miles onward lies the fine city of Tours, which 
gives name to this rich and beautiful earldom. But the village , 
of Plessis, or Plessis of the Park, as it is sometimes called, from ( 
its vicinity to the royal residence, and the chase with whicli i 
it is encircled, will yield you nearer, and as convenient, I 
hospitality.” j 

“I thank you, kind master, for j^our information,” said the | 
Scot; “but my stay will be so short here that, if I fail not in a 
morsel of meat and a drink of something better than w^ater, I 
my necessities in Plessis, be it of the park or the pool, will be | 
amply satisfied.” 

“Nay,” answered his companion, “I thought you had some 
friend to see in this quarter.” 

“And so I have—my mother’s own brother,” answered 
Durward; “and as pretty a man, before he left the braes of 
Angus, as ever planted brogue on heather.” 

“What is his name?” said the senior. “We will inquire 
him, out for you; for it is not safe for you to go up to the 
castle, where you might be taken for a spy.” 

“Now, by my father’s hand!” said the youth, “I taken for 
a spy! By Heaven, he shall brook cold iron that brands me 
with such a charge! But for my uncle’s name, I care not who 
knows it—it is Lesh’—Lesly, an honest and noble name!” 

And so it is, I doubt not,” said the old man; “but there 
are three of the name in the Scottish Guard.” 

“My uncle’s name is Ludovic Lesly,” said the young man. 




49 


Quentin Durward 


“Of the three Leslies,” answered the merchant, “two are 
called Ludovic.” ' 

“They call my kinsman Ludovic with/ the Scar, said 
Quentin. !‘Our family names are so common in a Scottish 
house, that, where there is no land in the case, we always give 
a ‘to-name.’ ” 

“A noin de guerre} I suppose you to m.ean, answered his 
companion,* “and the man you speak of, we, I think, call Le 
Balafre, from that scar on his face—a proper man and a good 
soldier. I wish I may be able to help you to an interview with 
him, for he belongs to a set of gentlemen whose duty is strict, 
and who do not often come out of garrison, unless in the 
immediate attendance on the King’s person. And now, young 
man, answer me one question. I will wager you are desirous 
to take service with your uncle in the Scottish Guard. It is a 
great thing, if you propose so; especially as you are very 
young, and some years’ experience is necessary for the high 
office which you aim at.” 

“Perhaps I may have thought on some such thing,” said 
Durward carelessly; “but if I did, the fancy is off. 

“How* so, young man?” said the Frenchman, something 
sternly. “Do you speak thus of a charge which the most noble 
of your countrymen feel them.selves emulous to be admitted to ? 

' “I wish them joy of it,” said Quentin, composedly. “To 
speak plain, I should have liked the service of the French king 
full well, only, dress me as fine and Led me as high as you 
will I love the open air better than being shut up m a cage or 
a swallow’s nest yonder, as you call these same grated pepper¬ 
boxes. Besides,” he added, in a lower voice, “to speak truth, 
I love not the castle when the covin-tree" bears such acorns as 

I see yonder.” 


. V<,« de luerre. Literally, a war-name, formerly French soldiers assumed 
. nami Sr were given a nickname, on enter.ng the serv.ce, . , 

^Covin-lree. 

S'^cStlrtt lafrfrec^^^^ guests cf rank, and thither he conveyed them on 
heir departure.— Scott. 


50 


Quentin Durward 


I'guess what you mean,” said the Frenchman; “but speak 
yet more plainly.” 

“To speak more plainly, then,” said the youth, “there 
grows a fair oak some flight-shot or so from yonder castle ;i 
and on that oak hangs a man in a grey jerkin, such as this 
which I wear.” 

“Ay and indeed !” said the man of France. “Pasques-dieu! 
see what it is to have youthful eyes! Why, I did see some¬ 
thing, but only took it for a raven among the branches. But 
the sight is no way strange, )oung man; when the summer- 
fades into autumn, and moonlight nights are long, and roads 
become unsafe, you will see a cluster often, a3% of twent}^ such 
acorns, hanging on that old doddered oak. But what then ? 
they are so many banners displayed to scare knaves; and for 
each rogue that hangs there, an honest man may reckon that 
there is a thief, a traitor, a robber on the highway, a Mlleur ^ 
and oppressor of the people, the fewer in France. These,, 
young man, are signs of our sovereign’s justice.” 

“I would have hung them farther from my palace, though, 
were I King Louis,” said the youth. “In my country, we hang 
up dead corbies where living corbies haunt,’but not in our gar¬ 
dens or pigeon-houses. The very scent of the carrion—faugh 
—reached my nostrils at the distance where we stood.” 

If you live to be an honest and loyal servant of your 
prince, my good j'outh,” answered the Frenchman, “you will 
know there is no perfume to match the scent of a dead traitor.” 

“I shall never wish to live till I lose the scent of my nostrils 
or the sight of my eyes,” said the Scot. “Show me a living- 
traitor, and here are my hand and my weapon; but when life 
is out, hatred should not live longer. But here, I fancy, we 
come upon the village; where I hope to show you that neither 
ducking nor disgust have spoiled mine appetite for my break¬ 
fast. So my good friend, to the hostelry, with all the speed 
you may. Yet, ere I accept of your hospitality, let me know 
by what name to call you.” 


L 


I 


^Pilleur. A plunderer. 





51 


Quentin Durward 

“IMen call me Maitre Pierre,”^ answered his companion. 
“I deal in no titles. A plain man that can live on mine own 
good—that is my designation.” 

“So be it, Maitre Pierre,” said Quentin, “and I am happy 
my good chance has thrown us together; for I want a word of 
seasonable advice, and can be thankful for it.” 

While they spoke thus, the tower of the church and a tall 
wooden crucifix, rising above the trees, showed that they were 
at the entrance of the village. 

But Maitre Pierre, deflecting a little from the road, which 
had now joined an open and public causeway, said to his com- 
I panion, that the inn to which he intended to introduce him 
stood somewhat secluded, and received only the better sort of 
travellers. 

“If you mean those who travel with the better-filled 
purses,” answered the Scot, “I am none of the number, and 
will rather stand my chance of your flayers on the highway 
than of your flayers in the hostelry!” 

’'Fasques-dieur said his guide, “how cautious your coun- 
: trymen of Scotland are! An Englishman, now, throws himself 
headlong into a tavern, eats and drinks of the best, and never 
thinks of the reckoning till his belly is full. But you forget, 
Master Quentin, since Quentin is your name you forget I 
owe you a breakfast for the wetting Avhich my mistake pro¬ 
cured you. It is the penance of my offence towards you.” 

“In truth,” said the light-hearted young man, “I had for¬ 
got wetting, offence, and penance, and all. I have walked 
my clothes dry, or nearly so; but I will not refuse your offer 
in kindness, for my dinner yesterday was a light one, and 
supper I had none. You seem an old and respectable burgess, 
and I see no reason why I should not accept your courtesy.” 

The Frenchman smiled aside, for he saw plainly that the 
youth, while he was probably half-famished, had yet some 
difficulty to reconcile himself to the thoughts of feeding at a 
i stranger’s cost, and was endeavoring to subdue his inward 


^MaXlre Fierye. Master Peter. 





pride by the reflection that, in such slight obligations, th 
acceptor performed as complacent a part as he by whom th 


52 


Quentin Durward 



courtesy was offered. I 

In the meanwhile, they descended a narrow lane, overjl 
shadowed by tall elms, at the bottom of which a gatewa5|j 
admitted them into the court5 ard of art inn of unusual magni-il 
tilde, calculated for the accommodation of the nobles and, 
suitors who had business at the neighbouring castle, wherej 
very seldom, and only when such hospitality was altogether^ 
unavoidable, did Louis XL permit any of his court to have- 
apartments. A scutcheon, bearing the fieur-de-lys^ hung overj 
the principal door of the large irregular building; but therd 
was about the yard and the offices little or none of the bustle 
which in those daj-s, when attendants were maintained both! 
in public and in private houses, marked that business was alivej 
and custom plenty. It seemed as if the stern and unsocial! 
character of the royal mansion in the neighbourhood had com-| 
municated a portion of its solemn and terrific gloom even to ai 
place designed, according to universal custom elsewhere, forj 
the temple of social indulgence, merry society, and good cheer.n 

Maitre Pierre, without calling any one, and even without 
approaching the principal entrance, lifted the latch of a side 
door, and led the way into a large room, where a fagot was 
blazing on the hearth,, and arrangements made for a sub-| 
stantial breakfast. 

“My gossip has been careful,” said the Frenchman to the 
Scot. “You must be cold,.and I have commanded a fire; you[ 
must be hungry, and you shall have breakfast presently.” | 

He whistled, and the landlord entered; answered 



Pierre’s "'bon ]our”~ with a reverence; but in no respect 
showed any part of the prating humour properly belonging to 
a French publican of all ages. 

“I expected a gentleman,” said Maitre Pierre, “to order 
breakfast. Hath he done so?” 

‘Fletir-de-lvs. The lily of France. 

'^Bon jour. salutation; good da-' 






Quentin Durward 53 

In answer, the landlord onl}^ bowed; and while he con¬ 
tinued to bring, and arrange upon the table, the various 
articles of a comfortable meal, omitted to extol their merits by 
a single word. And yet the breakfast merited such eulogiums 
as French hosts are wont to confer upon their regales, as the 
reader wdll be informed in the next chapter. 



CHAPTER IV. 




THE DEJEUNER^ ' ' M 

Sacred heaven ! what masticators! what bread ! « 

Yorick’s Travels, i 

( 

We left our young stranger in France situated more 
comfortably than he had found himself since entering the 
territories of the ancient Gauls. The breakfast, as we hinted 
in the conclusion of the last chapter, was admirable. There 
was a pate de Ferigord^ over which a gastronome^ would 
have wished to live and die, like Homer’s lotus-eaters,^ forget¬ 
ful of kin, native country, and all social obligations whatever. 

Its vast walls of magnificent crust, seemed raised like the 
bulwarks of some rich metropolitan city, an emblem of the 
wealth which they are designed to protect. There was a 
delicate ragout,with just that petite pointe de V aif which 
Gascons love and Scottishmen do not hate. There was, 
besides, a delicate ham, which had once supported a noble 
wild boar in the neighboring wood of Mountrichart. There 
was the most exquisite white bread made into little round 
loaves called boules (whence the bakers took their French j 
name of boulangers), of which the crust was so inviting that, 
even with water alone, it would have been a delicacy. But 
the water was not alone, for there was a flask of leather called ‘ 
bottrine, which contained about a quart of exquisite vin de 

^Dejeuner, breakfast. 

"^Pdle de Perigord. A pasty of partridges with truffles. 

^Gastronome. An epicure. 

^Homer’s lotus-eaters. Followers of Ulysses, in Homer’s Odyssey. Their 
experience is poetically described in Tennyson’s The Lotos-Eaters. 

^Ragout. A stew. 

^Petite pointe de Vail. A slight flavor of garlic. 


54 



55 


Quentin Durward 

Beauhie} So many good things might have created appetite 
under the ribs of death. What effect, then, must they have 
produced upon a youngster of scarce twenty, who (for the 
truth must be told) had eaten little for the two last days, save 
the scarcely ripe fruit which chance afforded him an oppor¬ 
tunity of plucking, and a very moderate portion of barley- 
bread ? He threw himself upon the ragout, and the plate was 
presently vacant; he attacked the mighty pasty, marched deep 
into the bowels of the land, and, seasoning his enormous meal 
with an occasional cup of wine, returned to the charge again 
and again, to the astonishment of mine host and the amuse¬ 
ment of IMaitre Pierre. 

’ The latter, indeed, probably because he found himself the 
author of a kinder action than he had thought of, seemed 
delighted with the appetite of the young Scot; and when, at 
length he observed that his exertions began to languish, 
endeavoured to stimulate him to new efforts, by ordering con¬ 
fections, darioles,~ and any other light dainties he could think 
of, to entice the youth to continue his meal. While thus 
I engaged, Maitre Pierre’s countenance expressed a kind of 
good-humour almost amounting to benevolence, which 
appeared remote from its ordinary sharp, caustic, and severe 
I character. The aged almost always sympathise with the 
i enjo3'ments of 5^outh, and with its exertions of every kind, 

I when the mind of the spectator rests on its natural poise, and 
! is not disturbed by inward envy or idle emulation. 

Quentin Durward also, while thus agreeably emploj^ed, 
could do no otherwise than discover that the countenance of 
his entertainer, which he had at first found so unprepossessing, 
mended when it was seen under the influence of the vin de 
Beaulne, and there was kindness in the tone with which he 
reproached Maitre Pierre, that he amused himself with laugh¬ 
ing at his appetite, without eating anything himself. 

> r/« de Beaulne. Wine of Beaulne. 

^Darioles. Pastry cakes containing cream. 



56 


Quentin Durward ] 

“I am doing penance,” said Maitre Fierie, “and may not j 
eat anything before noon, save some comfiture and a cup of | 
water. Bid yonder lad>%” he added, turning to the innkeeper, j 
“bring them hither to me.” 

The innkeeper left the room, and Maitre Pierre pro- | 
ceeded—“Well, have I kept faith with you concerning the . 
breakfast I promised you?” 

“The best meal I have eaten,” said the youth., “since I left ^ 
Glen Houlakin.” l 

“Glen—what?” demanded Maitre Pierre; “are you going ’ 
to raise the devil, that you use such long-tailed words ?” j 

“Glen Houlakin,” answered Quentin, good-humouredly, I 
“which is to say the Glen of the Midges, is the name of our • 
ancient patrimony, my good sir. You have bought the right ^ 
to laugh at the sound, if you please.” 

“I have not the least intention to offend,” said the old 
man; “but I was about to say, since you like your present 
meal so well, that the Scottish Archers of the Guard eat as 
good a one or a better, every day.” | 

“No wonder,” said Durward, “for if they be shut up in ' 
the swallows’ nests all night, they must needs have a curious ■ 
appetite in the morning.” i 

“And plenty to gratify it upon,” said Maitre Pierre. 
“They need not, like the Burgundians, chouse a bare back,^ 
that they may have a full belly; they dress like counts, and 
feast like abbots.” 

“It is well for them,” said Durward. 

“And wherefore will you not take service here, young 
man? Your uncle might, I daresay, have j'ou placed on the 
file when there should a vacancy occur. And, hark in your 
ear, I myself have some little interest, and might be of some 
use to you. You can ride, I presume, as well as draw the 
bow?” 

^Chouse a bare back. Chouse is to cheat; the meaning is that they do not have 
to go without fine clothes in order to be well fed. 




57, 


Quentin Durward 

“Our race are as good horsemen as ever put a plated shoe 
into a steel stirrup; and I know not but I might accept of 
I your kind offer. \ et, look jou, food and raiment are needful 
things, but, in my case, men think of honour, and advance¬ 
ment, and brave deeds of arms. Your King Louis—God bless 
him! for he is a friend and ally of Scotland—but he lies here 
in this castle, or only rides about from one fortified town to 
another; and gains cities and provinces by politic embassies, 
and not in fair fighting. Now, for me, I am of the Doug¬ 
lasses’ mind, who always kept the fields, because they loved 
better to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak.” 

oung man,” said Maitre Pierre, “do not judge too 
rashly of the actions of sovereigns. Louis seeks to spare the 
I blood of his subjects, and cares not for his own. He showed 
I himself a man of courage at IMontPhery.” 

“Ay, but that was some dozen years ago or more,” 
answered the youth. “I should like to follow a master that 
would keep his honour as bright as his shield, and always 
venture foremost in the very throng of the battle.” 

“Why did you not tarry at Brussels, then,” said Maitre 
Pierre, “with the Duke of Burgundy? He would put you in 
the way to have your bones broken every day; and rather than 
fail, would do the job for you himself, especially if he heard 
that you had beaten his forester.” 

“Very true,” said Quentin; “my unhappy chance has shut 
that door against me.” 

“Nay, there are plenty of dare-devils abroad, with whom 
mad youngsters may find service,” said his adviser. “What 
think you for example of William de la IMarck?” ^ 

“What!” exclaimed Durward, “serve Him with the 
Beard—serve the Wild Boar of Ardennes—a captain of pil¬ 
lagers and murderers, who would take a man’s life for the 
value of his gaberdine," and who slays priests and pilgrims as 

^William de la Marck. William of the Mark; in the middle ages, the term 
mark, or viarck, indicated a tract of land held by a community of freemen. In 
its English form, March, the word usually meant the frontier, the neutral ground 
on the border. 

'Gaberdine. A long cloak- 




58 


Quentin Durward I 

if they were so many lance-knights and men-at-arms? Itl 
would be a blot on my father’s scutcheon for ever.” 

“Well, my young hot-hlood,” replied Maitre Pierre, “if 
3'ou hold the SangUer^ too unscrupulous, wherefore not follow 
the young Duke of Gueldres?”" i 

“Follow the foul fiend as soon,” said Quentin. “Hark in| 
your ear—he is a burden too heavy for earth to carry: helh 
gapes for him. Men say that he keeps his own father impris¬ 
oned, and that he has even struck him. Can you believe it?”l 

Maitre Pierre seemed somewhat disconcerted with the 
' naive horror with which the young Scotsman spoke of filiah 
ingratitude, and he answered, “You know not, young man, 
how short a while the relations of blood subsist amongst those' 
of elevated rank;” then changed the tone of feeling in which 
he had begun to speak, and added gaily, “Besides, if the duke 
has beaten his father, I warrant you his father hath beaten 
him of old, so it is but a clearing of scores.” 

“I marvel to hear you speak thus,” said the Scot, colouring 
with indignation; grey hairs such as yours ought to have! 
fitter subjects for jesting. If the old duke did beat his son in 
childhood, he beat him not enough; for better he had diedi 
under the rod than have lived to make the Christian world 
ashamed that such a monster had ever been baptized.” 

“At this rate,” said Maitre Pierre, “as you weigh the char¬ 
acters of each prince and leader, I think you had better becomej 
a captain yourself; for where will one so wise find a chieftain 
fit to command him?” 

“You lauTh at me, Maitre Pierre,” said the youth, good- 
humouredly, “and perhaps you are right; but you have not 
named a man who is a gallant leader, and keeps a brave party 
up here, under whom a man might seek service well enough.” 

“I cannot guess whom you mean.” 

“Why, he that hangs like Mahomet’s coffin ^—a curse be 

^Sanglier. Wild boar. 

^Duke of Gueldres. See Note 2 at end of the novel. 

^Mahomet's Codin. According to Mohammedan tradition, suspended in 
mid air between two magnets. 




59 


Quentin Durward 

upon Mahomet!—between the two loadstones; he that no 
man can call either French'or Burgundian, but who knows to 
hold the balance between them both, and makes both of them 
fear and serve him, for as great-princes as they be.” 

“1 cannot guess whom you mean,” said Maitre Pierre, 
thoughtfully. 

“Why, whom should I mean but the noble Louis de Lux¬ 
embourg, Count of St. Paul, the High Constable of France?^ 
Yonder he makes his place good, with his gallant little army,, 
holding his head as high as either King Louis or Duke Charles, 
and balancing between them, like the boy who stands on the 
midst of a plank, while two others are swinging on the opposite 
ends.” 

“He is in danger of the worst fall of the three,” said 
Maitre Pierre. “And hark ye, my young friend, you who 
hold pillaging such a crime, do you know that your politic 
Count of St. Paul was the first who set the example of burn¬ 
ing the country during the time of war, and that, before the 
shameful devastation which he committed, open towns and 
villages, w^hich made no resistance, were spared on all sides?” 

“Nay, faith,” said Durward, “if that be the case, I shall 
begin to think no one of these great men is much better than 
another, and that a choice among them is but like choosing a 
tree to be hung upon. But this Count de St. Paul, this Con¬ 
stable, hath possessed himself by clean conveyance of the town 
which takes its name from my honoured saint and patron, St. 
Quentin," (here he crossed himself,) and methinks, were I 
dwelling there, my holy patron would keep some look-out for 
me; he has not so many named after him as your more popular 
saints; and yet he must have forgotten me, poor Quentin 
Durward, his spiritual god-son, since he lets me go one day 
without food, and leaves me the next morning to the harbour- 

^Constable of France. See Note 3 at end of the novel. 

^Sl. Quentin. It was by his possession of this town of St. Quentin that the 
Cv nstable was able to carry on those political intrigues which finally cost him so 
det r.— Scott. 




60 


Quentin Durward ■ 

age of St. Julian/ and the chance courtesy of a stranger, 
purchased by a ducking in the renowned river Cher, or one of 
its tributaries.” 

“Blaspheme not the saints,' my 3’oung friend,” said Maitre 
Pierre. “St. Julian is the faithful patron of travellers; and, 
peradventure, the blessed St. Quentin hath done more and 
better for thee than thou art aware of.” 


ti 


As he spoke, the door opened, and a girl, rather above than 
.under fifteen years old, entered with a platter, covered with 
damask, on which was placed a small saucer of the dried 
plums which have always added to the reputation of Tours, 
and a cup of the curiously chased plate which the goldsmiths 
of that city were anciently famous for executing with a 
delicacy of workmanship that distinguished them from the 
other cities of France, and even excelled the skill of the 
metropolis. The form of the goblet was so elegant, that Dur 
ward thought not of observing closely whether the material 
was of silver, or, like what had been placed before himself, of 
a baser metal, but so well burnished as to resemble the 
richer ore. 

But the sight of the j^oung person by whom this service 
was executed attracted Durward’s attention far more than the 
petty minutiae of the duty which she performed. 

He speedily made the discovery that a quantity of long 
black tresses, which, in the maiden fashion of his own country, 
were unadorned by any ornament, except a single chaplet 
lightly woven out of ivy leaves, formed a veil around a 
countenance which, in its regular features, dark eyes, and 

• • ~ ^ T' 

pensive expression, resembled that of Melpomene," thoughj 
there was a faint glow on the cheek, and an intelligence on the-®^ 


J 


^Sl. Julian. This saint provided good lodging for his devotees. Compare 
Chaucer’s description of the Franklin in the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales: 

“An housholdcre and that a greet was he; 

Seint Julian was he in his countree.” 

Harbourage (shelter) reminds us that the word harbour indicated a place 
where travellers were entertained, as well as a port of safety for vessels. Compare 
French auberge, and German Ilerberge, an inn. 

"^Melpomene. The Muse of Tragedy. 






VJUEXTIN UURWARD ' ^ 61 

lips and in the eye, which made It seem that gaiety was not 
foreign to a countenance so expressive, although it might not 
be its most habitual expression. Quentin even thought he 
could discern that depressing circumstances were the cause 
\\'h)' a countenance so young and so lovely was graver than 
belongs to early beauty; and as the romantic imagination of 
jouth Is rapid in drawing conclusions from slight premises, he 
was pleased to Infer, from what follows, that the fate of this 
beautiful vision was wrapped in silence and mystery. 

' “How now, Jacqueline!” said Maitre Pierre, when she 
entered the apartment. “Wherefore this? Did I not desire 
that Dame Perette should bring what I wanted? Pasques- 
dieu! Is she, or does she think herself, too good to serve me?” 

»“My kinswoman is ill at ease,” answered Jacqueline, in a 
hurried yet a humble tone — “Ill at ease, and keeps her 
chamber.” 

“She keeps It alone, I hope?” replied Maitre Pierre, with 
some emphasis. “I am vieux routier} and none of those upon 
whom feigned disorders pass for apologies.” 

Jacqueline turned pale, and even tottered, at the answer of 
Maitre Pierre; for It must be owned that his voice and looks, 
at all times harsh, caustic and unpleasIng, had, when he 
expressed anger or suspicion, an effect both sinister and 
alarming. 

The mountain chivalry of Quentin Durward was Instantly 
awakened, and he hastened to approach Jacqueline and relieve 
her of the burden she bore, and which she passively resigned 
to him, while with a timid and anxious look she watched the 
countenance of the angry burgess. It was not In nature to 
resist the piercing and pity-craving expression of her looks, 
and Maitre Pierre proceeded, not merely with an air of dimin¬ 
ished displeasure, but with as much gentleness as he could 
assume In countenance and manner — “I blame not thee, 
Jacqueline, and thou art too jmung to be—what It is pity to 
think thou must be one da}"—a false and treacherous thing, 


1 Vieux routier. An old stager. 








• Quextix Durward 

like the rest of tity giddy sexd No man ever lived to man’s 
estate but he had the opportunity to know you all. Here is a 
Scottish cavalier will tell you the same.” 

Jacqueline looked for an instant on the young stranger, as 
if to obey Maitre Pierre, but the glance, momentary as it was, 
appeared to Durward a pathetic appeal to him for support and 
sympathy; and with the promptitude dictated by the feelings 
of youth, and the romantic veneration for the female sex 
inspired by his education, he answered, hastily, “That he 
would throw down his gage to any antagonist,'of equal rank 
and equal age, who should presume to say such a countenance 
as that which he now looked upon could be animated by other 
than the purest and the truest mind.” 

The young woman grew deadly pale, and cast an apprehen¬ 
sive glance upon Maitre Pierre, in whom the bravado of the 
young gallant seemed only to excite laughter, more scornful 
than applausive. Quentin, whose second thoughts generally 
corrected the first, though sometimes after they had found 
utterance, blushed deeply at having uttered what might be 
construed into an empty boast, in presence of an old man of a 
peaceful profession; and as a sort of just and appropriate pen¬ 
ance, resolved patiently to submit to the ridicule which he had 
incurred. He offered the cup and trencher to Alaitre Pierre 
with a blush in his cheek, and a humiliation of countenance 
which endeavoured to disguise itself under an embarrassed 
smile. 

“You are a foolish young man,” said Maitre Pierre, “and 
know as little of women as of princes, whose hearts,” he said, 
crossing himself devoutly, “God keeps in His right hand.” 

“And who keeps those of the women, then?” said Quentin, 
resolved, if he could help it, not to be borne down by the 
assumed superiority of this extraordinary old man, whose lofty 
T and careless manner possessed an influence over him of which 
he felt ashamed. 

^Giddy sex. It was a part of Louis’s very unamiable character, and not the 
best part of it, that he entertained a great contempt for th.e understanding, and 
not less for the character, of the fair sex.— Scott. 



63 


j Quentin Durwakd 

' I am afraid you must ask of them in another quarter,” 
1, said ]\Iaitre Pierre, composed!)'. 

!j Quentin was again rebuffed, but not utterly disconcerted. 

Surely, he said to himself, “I do not pay this same burgess 
I of Tours all the deference which I yield him on account of the 
miserable obligation of a breakfast, though it was a right good 
and substantial meal. Dogs and hawks are attached by feed¬ 
ing only; man must have kindness, if you would bind him 
vvith the cords of affection and obligation. But he is an extraor¬ 
dinary person; and that beautiful emanation that is even 
now vanishing—surely a thing so fair .belongs not to this 
mean place, belongs not even to the money-gathering merchant 
himself, though he seems to exert authority over her, as doubt¬ 
less he does over all whom chance brings within his little 
I circle. It is wonderful what ideas of consequence these Flem¬ 
ings and Frenchmen attach to wealth, so much more than 
wealth deserves, that I suppose this old merchant thinks the 
civility I pay to his age is given to his money—I, a Scottish 
gentleman of blood and coat-armour,^ and he a mechanic of 
Tours!” 

Such were the thoughts which hastily traversed the mind of 
; young Durward; while Maitre Pierre said, with a smile, and 
* at the same time patting Jacqueline’s head, from which hung 
I down her long tresses, “This young man will serve me, 

, Jacqueline; thou mayst withdraw. I will tell thy negligent 
i kinswoman she does ill to expose thee to be gazed on 
unnecessarily.” 

I “It was only to wait on you,” said the maiden. “I trust 
you will not be displeased with my kinswoman, since-” 

”Pasques-(lieu!” said the merchant, interrupting her, but 
not harshly, “do you bandy words with me, you brat, or stay 
you to gaze upon the youngster here? Begone; he is noble, 
and his services will suffice me.” 

Jacqueline vanished; and so much was Quentin Durward 
interested in her sudden disappearance, that it broke his pre-- 

^Coat-armour. The family coat-of-arms. 





64 


Quentin Durward j 

vious thread of reflection, and he complied mechanically, when | 
Maitre Pierre said, in the tone of one accustomed to be obeyed, ' 
as he threw himself carelessly upon a large easy-chair, “Place 
that tray beside me.” 

The merchant then let his dark eyebrows sink over his 
keen eyes, so that the last became scarce visible, or but shot ! 
forth occasionally a quick and vivid ray, like those of the sun 
setting behind a dark cloud, through which its beams are | 
occasionally darted, but singly and for an instant. j 

“That is a beautiful creature,” said the old man at last, : 
raising his head, and looking steadily and firmly at Quentin, : 
when he put the question—“a lovely girl to be the servant of : 
an aubergef ^ She might grace the board of an honest burgess; | 
but ’tis a vile education, a base origin.” 

It sometimes happens that a chance shot will demolish a f 
noble castle in the air, and the architect on such occasions ic 
entertains little good-will towards him who fires it, although 
the damage on the offender’s part may be wholly unintentional. I 
Quentin was disconcerted, and was disposed to be angry, he i|, 
himself knew not why, with this old man for acquainting him tfi 
that this beautiful creature was neither more nor less than |f 
what her occupation announced—the servant of the auberge — ij 
an upper servant, indeed, and probably a niece of the landlord, h 
or such-like; but still a domestic, and obliged to comply with 
the humour of the customers, and particularly of Maitre 
Pierre, who probably had sufficiency of whims, and was rich 
enough to ensure their being attended to. 

The thought, the lingering thought, again returned on 
him, that he ought to make the old gentleman understand the 
difference betwixt their conditions, and call on him to mark f 
that, how rich soever he might be, his wealth put him on no 
level with a Durward of Glen Houlakin. Yet, whenever he 
looked on Maitre Pierre’s countenance with such a purpose, [ 
there was, notwithstanding the downcast look, pinched fea- t 
tures, and mean and miserly dress, something which prevented i 


^Auberge. An inn. 




65 


Quentin Durward 

I the young man from asserting the superiority over the merchant 
I which he conceived himself to possess. On the contrary, the 
oftener and more fixedly Quentin looked at him, the stronger 
became his curiosity to know who or what this man actually 
was; and he set him down internally for at least a syndic ^ or 
! high magistrate of Tours, or one who was, in some way or 
other, in the full habit of exacting and receiving deference. 

IMeantime, the merchant seemed again sunk into a reverie, 
from which he raised himself only to make the sign of the 
cross devoutly, and to eat some of the dried fruit, with a 
morsel of biscuit. He then signed to Quentin to give him the 
cup, adding, however, by way of question, as he presented it— 
“\^ou are noble, you say?” 

I surely am, replied the Scot, “if fifteen descents can 
|[| make me so. So I told 3^ou before. But do not constrain 
^ yourself on that account, IMaitre Pierre: I have alwavs been 
taught it is the duty of the )^oung to assist the more aged.” 

“An excellent maxim,” said the merchant, availing himself 
of the youth’s assistance in handing the cup, and filling it from 
, a ewer which seemed of the same materials with the goblet, 
i without any of those scruples in point of propriety which, per- 
jlihaps, Quentin had expected to excite. 

! “The devil take' the ease and familiarity of this old 
mechanical burgher,” said Durward once more to himself; “lie 
I uses the attendance of a noble Scottish gemieman with as little 
j ceremony as I would that of a gillie" from Glen Isla.” 

The merchant, in the meanwhile, having finished his cup of 
water, said to his companion, “From the zeal with which you 
seemed to relish the vin de Beauhie, I fancy you would not 
care much to pledge me in this elemental liquor. But I have 
an elixir about me which can convert even the rock water into 
•the richest wines of France.” 

As he spoke, he took a large purse from his bosom, made 


^Syndic. ' A civic magistrate. 

K^illie. A serving-man, an attendant. 






66 


Quentin Durward 

of the fur of the sea-otter, and streamed a shower of small [ 
silver pieces into the goblet, until the cup, which was but a 
small one, was more than half full. 

“You have reason to be more thankful, j^oung man,” said I 
Maitre Pierre, “both to your patron St. Quentin and to St. I 
Julian than you seemed to be but now. I would advise you to l 
bestow alms in their name. Remain in this hostelry until 3^ou 
see 5'our kinsman, Le Balafre, who will be relieved from 
guard in the afternoon. I will cause him to be acquainted I 
that he may find you here, for I have business in the castle. J 

Quentin Durward would have said something to have '>i 
excused himself from accepting the profuse liberality of his a 
new friend; but Maitre Pierre, bending his dark brows and 
erecting his stooping figure into an attitude of more dignity I 
than he had yet seen him assume, said, in a tone of authority, ;j 
“No repl5^ young man, but do what you are commanded.” l 

With these words, he left the apartment, making a sign, as , 
he departed, that Quentin must not follow him. 

The young Scotsman stood astounded, and knew not what - 
to think of the matter. His first most natural, though per¬ 
haps not m.ost dignified, impulse drove him to peep into the 
silver goblet, which assuredly was more than half full of silver 
pieces, to the number of several scores, of which perhaps 
Quentin had never called twenty his own at one time during 
the course of his whole life. But could he reconcile it to his 
dignity as a gentleman to accept the money of this wealthy 
plebeian ? This was a trying question; for though he had 
secured a good breakfast, it was no great reserve upon which 
to travel either back to Dijon, in case he chose to hazard the 
wrath, and enter the service, of the Duke of Burgundy, or to 
St. Quentin, if he fixed on that of the Constable St. Paul; for 
to one of those powers, if not to the King of France, he was . 
determined to offer his services. He perhaps took the wisest 
resolution in the circumstances, in resolving to be guided by 
the advice of his uncle; and, in the meantime, he put the 
money into his velvet hawking-pouch, and called for the land- 





67 


I Quentin Durward 

j lord of the house, in order to restore the silver cup— resolving, 
iit the same tinie, to ask him some questions about this liberal 
and authoritative merchant. 

The man of the house appeared presently; and, if not 
more communicative, was at least more loquacious, than he 
had been form^erly. He positively declined to take back the 
silver cup. “It was none of his,” he said, “but Maitre 
Pierre s who had bestowed it on his guest. He had, indeed, 
four silver hanaps^ of his own, which had been left him by 
his grandmother, of happy memory, but no more like the 
beautiful carving of that in his guest’s hand than a peach was 
like a turnip: that was one of the famous cups of Tours,, 
wrought by Martin Dominique, an artist who might brag all 
Paris.” 

“And, pray, who is this Maitre Pierre,” said Durward, 
interrupting him, “who confers such valuable gifts on 
strangers ?” 

“Who is Maitre Pierre?” said the host, dropping the 
words as slowly from his mouth as if he ha-d been distilling 
them. 

“Ay,” said Durward, hastily and peremptorily, “who is 
this Maitre Pierre, and why does he throw about his bounties 
in this fashion? And who is the butcherly-looking fellow 
whom he sent forward to order breakfast?” 

“Why, fair sir, as to who Maitre Pierre is, you should 
have asked the question of himself; and for the gentleman 
who ordered breakfast to be made ready, may God keep us 
from his closer acquaintance!” 

“There is something mysterious in all this,” said the young 
Scot. “This Maitre Pierre tells me he is a merchant.” 

“And if he told you so,” said the innkeeper, “surely he is a 
merchant.” 

“What commodities does he deal in ?” 

“O, many a fair matter of traffic,” said the host; “and 
especially he has set up silk manufactories here, which match 


Hanaps. Large drinking cups. 




68 


Quentin Durward 


those rich bales that the Venetians bring from India and 
Cathay. You might see the rows of mulberry-trees as you j 
came hither, all planted by IMaitre Pierre’s commands, to feed j 
the silk-worms.” ; 

“And that )'’oung person who brought in the confections, 
who is she, my good friend ?” said the guest. i 

“My lodger, sir, with her guardian, some sort of aunt or 
kinswoman, as I think,” replied the innkeeper. j 

“And do you usually employ your guests in waiting on j 
each other?” said Durward; “for I observed that Maitre 
Pierre would take nothing from your hand or that of your 
attendant.” 

“Rich men may have their fancies, for they can pay for 
them,” said the landlord; “this is not the first time that 
Maitre Pierre has found the true way to make gentlefolks 


serve at his beck.” 

The young Scotsman felt somewhat offended at the insin¬ 
uation ; but, disguising his resentment, he asked whether 
he could be accommodated with an apartment at this place 
for a day, and perhaps longer. 

“Certainly,” the innkeeper replied; “for whatever time he 
was pleased to command it.” 

“Could he be permitted,” he asked, “to pay his respects to 
the ladies, whose fellow-lodger he was about to become?” 

The innkeeper was uncertain. “They went not abroad,” 
he said, “and received no one at home.” 

“With the exception, I presume, of Maitre Pierre?” said 
Durward. 

“I am not at liberty to name any exceptions,,” answered 
the man, firmly but respectfully. 

Quentin, who carried the notions of his own importance 
pretty high, considering how destitute he was of means to 
support them, being somewhat mortified by the innkeeper’s 
reply, did not hesitate to avail himself of a practice common 
enough in that age. “Carry to the ladies,” he said, “a flask 




j 





Quentin Durward 69 

! of Auvernat} with my humble duty; and say, that Quentin 
^ Durward, of the house of Glen Houlakin, a Scottish cavalier 
• of honour, and now their fellow-lodger, desires the permission 
to dedicate his homage to them in a personal interview.” 

The messenger departed, and returned, almost instantly, 
with the thanks of the ladies, who declined the proffered 
refreshment, and with their acknowledgments to the Scottish 
cavalier, regretted that, residing there in privacy, they could 
not receive his visit. 

Quentin bit his lip, took a cup of the rejected Auvernat, 

I which the host had placed on the table. “By the mass, but 
I this is a strange country,” said he to himself, “where mer- 
I chants and mechanics exercise the manners and munificence 
! of nobles, and little travelling damsels, who hold their court 
I in a cabaret} keep their state like disguised princesses! 

I I will see that black-browed maiden again, or it will go 
hard, however;” and having formed this prudent resolution,, 
he demanded to be conducted to the apartment which he was 
to call his own. 

The landlord presently ushered him up a turret staircase, 
and from thence along a gallery, with many doors opening 
from it, like those of cells in a convent—a resemblance which 
our young hero, who recollected, with much ennui, an early 
specimen of a monastic life, w’as far from admiring. The 
host paused at the very end of the gallery, selected a key from 
the large bunch which he carried at his girdle, opened the 
door, and showed his guest the interior of a turret-chamber, 
small, indeed, but which, being clean and solitary, and having 
the pallet bed and the few articles of furniture in unusually 
good order, seemed, on the whole, a little palace. 

“I hope you will find your dwelling agreeable here, fair 
sir,” said the landlord. “I am bound to pleasure every friend 
of Maitre Pierre.” 


'^Auvernat. Auvernat wine. 
^Cabaret. A wine-shop. 




70 


Quentin Durward 

“O happ 5 ^ ducking!” exclaimed Quentin Durward, cut¬ 
ting a caper on the floor so soon as his host had retired. 
“Never came good luck in a better or a wetter form. 1 have 
been fairly deluged by my good fortune.” 

As he spoke thus, he stepped towards the little window, 
which, as the turret projected considerably from the principal 
line of the building, not only commanded a very pretty garden 
of some extent, belonging to the inn, but overlooked beyond 
its boundary a pleasant grove of those very mulberry-trees 
which Maitre Pierre was said to have planted for the support 
of the silk-worm. Besides, turning the eye from these more 
remote objects, and looking straight along the wall, the 
turret of Quentin was opposite to another turret, and the 
little window at which he stood commanded a similar little 
window in a corresponding projection of the building. Now,' 
it would be difficult for a man twenty years older than 
Quentin to say why this locality Interested him more than 
either the pleasant garden or the grove of mulberry-trees: 
for, alas! eyes which have been used for forty years and 
upwards look with indifference on little turret-windows, 
though the lattice be half open to admit the air,, while the 
shutter is half closed to exclude the sun, or perhaps a too 
^curious eye—nay, even though there hang on the one side of 
the casement a lute, partly mantled by a light veil of sea- 
green silk. But, at Durward’s happy age, such “accidents,” 
as a painter would call them, form sufficient foundation for a 
hundred airy visions and mysterious conjectures, at recollec¬ 
tion of which the full-grown man smiles while he sighs, and 
sighs while he smiles. 

As it may be supposed that our friend Quentin wished to 
learn a little more of his fair neighbour, the owner of the lute 
and veil—as it may be supposed he was at least interested to 
know whether she might not prove the same whom he had 
seen in humble attendance on ^Vlaitre Pierre, it must of course 
be understood that he did not produce a broad staring visage 
and person in full front of his own casement. Durward 





71 


Quentin Durward 

knew better the art of bird-catching; and it was to his keeping 
his person skilfully withdrawn on one side of his window, 
wliile he peeped through the lattice, that he owed the pleasure 
of seeing a white, round, beautiful arm take down thf instru¬ 
ment, and that his ears had presently after their share in the 
reward of Ids dexterous management. 

The maid of the little turret, of the veil, and of the lute 
sung exactly such an air as we are accustomed to suppose 
flowed from the lips of the high-born dames of chivalry,, 
when knights and troubadours^ listened and languished. 
The words had neither so much sense, wit, or fancy as to 
withdraw the attention from the music, nor the music so 
much of art as to drown all feeling of the words. The one 
seemed fitted to the other; and if the song had been recited 
without the notes, or the air played without the words, neither 
would have been worth noting. It is, therefore, scarcely fair 
to put upon record lines intended not to be said or read, hut 
only to be sung. But such scraps of old poetry have alwa5^s 
had a sort of fascination for us; and as the tune is lost for 
ever, unless Bishop happens to find the notes, or some lark 
teaches Stephens" to warble the air, we will risk our credit, 
and the taste of the Lady of the Lute, by preserving the 
verses, simple and even rude as they are. 

Ah! County Guy,^ the hour is nigh. 

The sun has left the lea, 

The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 

The lark, his lay who thrill’d all day. 

Sits hush’d his partner nigh; 

Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy? 

-Troubadours. Wandering minstrels; a school of early lyric poets in France. 

"^Bishop and Stephens. See Note 4 at end of the novel. 

^County. The domain of an earl, or count; frequently used, as here, in place 
of the title count. 



72 


Quentin Durward 


The village maid steals through the shade, 

Her shepherd’s suit to hear; 

To beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born cavalier. 

The star of Love, all stars above. 

Now reigns o’er earth and sky; 

And high and low the influence know— ^ 

But where is County Guy? 

Whatever the reader may think of this simple ditty, it had 
a powerful effect on Quentin,, when married to heavenly airs, 
and sung by a sweet and melting voice, the notes mingling 
with the gentle breezes w'hich wafted perfumes from the 
garden, and the figure of the songstress being so partially and 
obscurely visible as threw a yeil of mysterious fascination 
over the whole. 

At the close of the air, the listener could not help showing 
himself more boldly than he had yet done, in a rash attempt 
to see more than he had yet been able to discover. The 
music instantly ceased, the casement was closed, and a dark 
curtain, dropped on the inside, put a stop to all farther 
observation on the part of the neighbour in the next turret. 

Durward was mortified and surprised at the consequence 
of his precipitance, but comforted himself with the hope that 
the Lady of the Lute could neither easily forego the practice 
of an instrument which seemed so familiar to her, nor cruelly 
resolve to renounce the pleasures of fresh air and an open 
window, for the churlish purpose of preserving for her own 
exclusive ear the sw^eet sounds which she created. There 
came, perhaps, a little feeling of personal vanity to mingle 
with these consolatory reflections. If, as he shrewdly sus¬ 
pected, there w^as a beautiful, dark-tressed damsel inhabitant 
of the one turret, he could not but be conscious that a hand¬ 
some,, young, roving, bright-locked gallant, a cavalier of 
fortune, was the tenant of the other; and romances, those 
prudent instructors, had taught his youth that if damsels 



Quentin Durward' 


73 


were shy, they were yet neither void of interest nor of 
curiosity in their neighbours’ affairs. 

Whilst Quentin was engaged in these sage reflections, a 
sort of attendant or chamberlain of the inn informed him 
that a cavalier desired to speak with him below. 




CHAPTER V. 


THE MAN-AT-ARMS. 


Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth. 

As You Like It. 


. Charles VI. reigned 1380-1422. The origin of the Scottish 
Body-Guard, however, is said to date from the reign of Louis IX. (1226-701- tire 
organization was maintained for five hundred years. ’ 


The cavalier who awaited Quentin Durward’s descent 
into the apartment where he had breakfasted was one of those 
of whom Louis XI. had long since said, that they held in their 
hands the fortune of France, as to them were entrusted the 
direct custody and protection of the royal person. 

Charles the Sixth ^ had instituted this celebrated body, the 
Archers, as they were called, of the Scottish Body-Guard, 
with better reason than can generally be alleged fo»- establish¬ 
ing round the throne a guard of foreign and mercenary 
troops. The divisions which tore from his side more than 
half of France, together with the wavering and uncertain 
faith of the nobility who yet acknowledged his cause, rendered 
it impolitic and unsafe to commit his personal safety to their 
keeping. The Scottish nation was t-he hereditary enemy of 
the English, and the ancient, and, as it seemed, the natural, 
allies of France. They were poor, courageous, faithful; 
their ranks were sure to be supplied from the superabundant 
population of their own country, than which none in Europe 
sent forth more or bolder adventurers. Their high claims 
of descent, too, gave them a good title to approach the person 
of a monarch more closely than other troops, while the com¬ 
parative sm.allness of their numbers prevented the possibility 
of their mutinying, and becoming masters where they ought 
to be servants. 


74 






Quentin Durward 


75 


On the other hand, the French monarchs made it their 
policy to conciliate the affections of this select band of 
foreigners, by allowing them honorary privileges and ample 
pay, which last most of them disposed of with military pro¬ 
fusion in supporting their supposed rank. Each of them 
ranked as a gentleman in place and honour; and their near 
approach to the king’s person gave them dignity in their own 
eyes, as well as importance in those of the nation of France. 
They were sumptuously armed, equipped, and mounted; and 
each was entitled to allowance for a squire, a valet, a page, 
and two yeomen, one of whom was termed coutelier} from 
the large knife which he wore to despatch those whom in 
the mHee~ his master had thrown to the ground. With 
these followers, and a corresponding equipage, an archer of 
the Scot|:ish Guard was a person of quality and importance; 
and vacancies being generally filled up by those who had been 
trained in the service as pages or valets, the cadets of the best 
Scottish families were often sent to serve under some friend 
and relation in those capacities, until a chance of preferment 
should occur. 

The coutelier and his companion, not being noble or cap¬ 
able of this promotion, were recruited from persons of 
inferior quality; but as their pay and appointments were 
excellent, their masters were easily able to select from among 
their wandering countrymen the strongest and most courage¬ 
ous to wait upon them in these capacities. 

Ludovic Lesly, or as we shall more frequently call him, 
Le Balafre, by which name he was generally known in 
France, was upwards of six feet high, robust, strongly com¬ 
pacted in person, and hard-favoured in countenance, which 
latter attribute was much increased by a large and ghastly 
scar, which, beginning on his forehead, and narrowly missing 
his right eye, had laid bare the cheek-bone, and descended 
from thence almost to the tip of his ear, exhibiting a deep 

^Coutelier. Related to French couteau, a knife. 

^Milee. Crowded and confused fighting. 


76 


Quentin Durward i 

seam, which w^as sometimes scarlet, sometimes purple, some- I 
times blue, and sometimes approaching to black; but always ^ 
hideous, because at variance with the complexion of the face i 
in whatever state it chanced to be, whether agitated or still, ■ 
flushed with unusual passion, or in its ordinary state of I 
weather-beaten and sunburnt swarthiness. ; 

His dress and arms were splendid. He wore his national f 
bonnet, crested with a tuft of feathers, and with a Virgin ; 
Mary of massive silver for a brooch. These brooches had : 
been presented to the Scottish Guard, in consequence of the 
King, in one of his fits of superstitious piety, having devoted - 
the swords of his guard to the service of the Holy Virgin, 
and, as some say, carried the matter so far as to draw out a 
commission to Our Lady as their captain-general. The 
archer’s gorget,^ arm-pieces, and gauntlets were of the finest • 
steel, curiously inlaid with sih^r, and his hauberk, or shirt of ' 
mail, was as clear and bright as the frostwork of a wdnter i 
morning upon fern or brier. He wore a loose surcoat, of ' 
cassock, of rich blue velvet, open at the sides like that of a 
herald, with a large white St. Andrew’s cross of embroidered 
silver bisecting it both before and behind; his knees and legs : 
were protected by hose of mail and shoes of steel; a broad i 
strong poniard, called the “mercy of God,” hung by his right 
side; the baldric" for his two-handed sword, richly embroid¬ 
ered, hung upon his left shoulder; but, for convenience, he at 
present carried in his hand that unwieldy weapon, which the 
rules of his service forbade him to lay aside. 

Quentin Durward, though, like the Scottish youth of the 
period, he had been early taught to look upon arms and war, 
thought he had never seen a more martial-looking, or more 
completely equipped and accomplished, man-at-arms than now 
saluted him in the person of his mother’s brother, called 
Ludovic with the Scar, or Le Balafre; yet he could not but 
shrink a little from the grim expression of his countenance, 

^Gorget. Armour for the throat. 

^Baldric. A belt. 



Quentin Durward 


I 


while, with its rough mustachios, he brushed first the one and 
then the other cheek of his kinsman, welcomed his nephew 
to France, and, in the same breath, asked what news from 
Scotland. 

“Little good tidings, dear uncle,” replied young Dur¬ 
ward; “but I am glad that you know me so readily.” 

“I would have known thee, boy, in the landes of Bour- 
deaux,^ had I met thee marching there like a crane on a pair 
of stilts." But sit thee down—sit thee down; if there is 
sorrow to hear of,, we will have wine to make us bear it. 
Ho! old Pinch-Measure, our good host, bring us of thy best, 
and that in an instant.” 

The well-known sound of the Scottish French was as famil¬ 
iar in the taverns near Plessis as that of the Swiss French '^ 
in the modern guinguettes^ of Paris; and promptly ay, 
with the promptitude of fear and precipitation—was it heard 
and obeyed. A flagon of champagne stood before them, of 
which the elder took a draught, while the nephew helped 
himself only to a moderate sip, to acknowledge his uncle’s 
courtesy, saying, in excuse, that he had already drunk wine 
that morning. 

“That had been a rare good apology in the mouth of thy 
sister, fair nephew,” said Le Balafre; “you must fear the 
winepot less, if you would wear beard on your face, and write 
yourself soldier. But come—come, unbuckle your Scottish 
mail-bag—give us the news of Glen Houlakin. How doth 
my sister?” 

“Dead, fair uncle,” answered Quentin, sorrowfully. 

“Dead!” echoed his uncle with a tone rather marked by 
wonder than sympathy; “why, she was five years younger 


^Lande^ of Bourdeaux. Low flat deserts of loose sand bordering on the Bay 
of Biscay. 

"^Stilts The crutches or stilts which in Scotland are used to pass rivers. 
They are employed by the peasantry of the country near Bourdeaux to traverse 
those deserts of loose sand called Landes.—.Sco</ 

French In 1616, a corps of Swiss mercenary troops was established in 
the FrS sSvfce; it was’finally disbanded in 1830. The. valor of the Swiss 
Guard in defending the palace of the Tuileries (1792) is historic. 

*GuingueUes. Places of refreshment, tea-gardens. 





78 


Quentix Durward j 

than I, and I was never better in my life. Dead! the thing i 
is impossible. I have never had so much as a headache, unless i 
after revelling out my two or three days’ furlough with the ; 
brethren of the joyous science;^ and my poor sister is dead! ; 
And your father, fair nephew, hath he married again?” 

And ere the youth could reply, he read the answer in his I 
surprise at the question, and said, “What! no? I would f 
have sworn that Allan Durward was no man to live without 
a wife. He loved to have his house in order, loved to look i 
on a pretty woman too, and was somewhat strict in life I 
withal; matrimony did all this for him. Now, I care little ' 
about these comforts; and I can look on a pretty woman 
without thinking on the sacrament of wedlock; I am scarce ' 
holy enough for that.” 

“Alas! dear uncle, my mother was left a widow a year I 
since, when Glen Houlakin was harried by the Ogilvies. i 
IVIy father, and my two uncles, and my two elder brothers, i 
and seven of my kinsmen, and the harper, and the tasker “ 
and some six more of our people, were killed in defending 
the castle; and there is not a burning hearth or a standincr I 
stone in all Glen Houlakin.” , 

“Cross of St. Andrew!” said Le Balafre; “that is what I 
call an onslaught! Ay, these Ogilvies were ever but sorry 
neighbours to Glen Houlakin; an evil chance it was, but 
fate of vcar—fate of war. When did this mishap befall’ fair 
nephew?” With that he took a deep draught of wine,’ and 
shook his head with much solemnity when his kinsman replied 
that his family had been destroyed upon the festival of St. 
Jude'^ last bye-past. 

"Look ye there,” said the soldier, “I said it was all chance. 
Un that wry day I and twenty of my comrades carried the 
Castle of Roche-Noir by storm, from Amaury Bras-de-Fer,'‘ a 


^Brethren of the joyous science. Minstrels. 

2 Tasker. Laborer. 

^Festival of St. Jude. The 28th of October. 

*Bras-de-Fer. Iron Arm; a nickname, or nom-de-guerre, like Le Balafre. 


79 


I B Quentin Durward 

captain of free lances, whom you must have heard of. I 
killed him on his own threshold, and gained as much gold as 
made this fair chain, which was once twice as long as it now 
is; and that minds me to send part of it on an holy errand. 
Here, Andrew—Andrew!” 

Andrew, his 3 ^eoman, entered, dressed like the archer him¬ 
self in the general equipment, but without the armour for the 
limbs; that of the body more coarsely manufactured; his cap 
without a plume, and his cassock made of serge, or ordinary 
V cloth, instead of rich velvet. Untwdning his gold chain from 
: I his neck, Balafre twisted off, with his firm and strong-set 
■; teeth, about four inches from the one end of it, and said to 
his attendant, “Here, Andrew, carry this to my gossip, jolly 
Father Boniface, the Monk of St. Martin’s; greet him well 
from me, by the same token that he could not say ‘God save 
ye’ when we last parted at midnight. Tell my gossip that 
' my brother and sister, and some others of my house, are all 
dead and gone, and I pray him to say masses for their souls 
as far as the value of these links will carry him, and to do on 
trust what else may be necessary to free them from purgatory. 
And hark ye, as they were just-living people, and free from 
: all heresy, it may be that they are wellnigh out of limbo 
already, so that a little matter may have them free of the 
fetlocks; and in that case, look ye, ye will say I desire to take 
: out the balance of the gold in curses upon a generation called 
the Ogilvies of Angusshire, in what way soever the church 
may best come at them. You understand all this, Andrew?” 
The coutelier nodded. 

“Then look that none of the links find their way to the 
, wine-house ere the monk touches them; for if it so chance, 
S thou shalt taste of saddle-girth and stirrup-leather, till thou 
5 art as raw as St. Bartholomew.^ Yet hold, I see thy eye has 
* fixed on the wine measure, and thou shalt not go without 
I tasting.” 

j 

^Sl. Bartholomew. A Christian martyr who was flayed alive. 





80 


\ 

Quentin Durward 

So saying he filled him a brimful cup, which the coutelier i 
drank off, and retired to do his patron’s commission. ' 

“And now, fair nephew, let us hear what was your own 
fortune in this unhappy matter.” 

“I fought it out among those who were older and stouter 
than I was, till we were all brought down,” said Durward, 
“and 1 received a cruel wound.” 

“Not a worse slash than I received ten years since myself,” 
said Le Balafre. “Look at this now, my fair nephew,” ! 
tracing the dark crimson gash which was imprinted on his 
face. “An Ogilvie’s sword never ploughed so deep a furrow.” 

“They ploughed deep enough,” answered Quentin, sadly; 
“but they were tired at last, and my mother’s entreaties pro¬ 
cured mercy for me, when I was found to retain some spark 
of life; but although a learned monk of Aberbrothock, who ' 
chanced to be our guest at the fatal time, and narrowly 
escaped being killed in the fray, was permitted to bind my 
wounds, and finally to remove me to a place of safety, it was ; 
only on promise, given both by my mother and him, that I 
should become a monk.” i 

“A monk!” exclaimed the uncle—“Holy St. Andrew! 
that is what never befell me. No one, from my childhood | 
upwards, ever so much as dreamed of making me a monk. 1 
And yet I wonder when I think of it; for you will allow^ 1 
that, bating the reading and writing, which I could never ; 
learn; and the psalmody, which I could never endure; and i' 
the dress, which is that of a mad beggar—Our Lady forgive | 
me! (here he crossed himself) ; and their fasts, which do not | 
suit my appetite, I would have made every whit as good a i 
monk as my little gossip at St. Martin’s yonder. But I know i 
not why, none ever proposed the station to me. O so, fair j 
nephew, you were to be a monk, then; and wherefore, I 
pray?” | 

That my father s house might be ended, either in the ! 
cloister or in the tomb,” answered Quentin, with deep feel¬ 
ing.” 





81 


QuEN'TIX Durward 


I see,” answered his uncle- 
Thev 


-“I comprehend. Cunning 
rogues — very cunning! i hey might have been cheated, 
though; for, look ye, fair nephew, I myself remember the 
canon Robersart who had taken the vows, and afterward 
broke out of cloister, and became a captain of Free Com¬ 
panions. He had a mistress, the prettiest wench I ever saw, 
and three as beautiful children. There is no trusting monks, 
fair nephew,—no trusting them: they may become soldiers 
and fathers when you least expect it; but on with your tale.” 

“I have little more to tell,” said Durward, “except that, 
considering my poor mother to be in some degree a pledge 
for me, I was induced to take upon me the dress of a novice, 
and conformed to the cloister rules, and even learned to read 
and write.” 

“To read and wTite!” exclaimed Le Balafre, who w^as 
one of that sort of people who think all knowledge is mirac¬ 
ulous which chances to exceed their own. “To write, say’st 
thou, and to read! I cannot believe it: never Durward 
could write his name that ever I heard of, nor Lesly either. 
I can answer for one of them: I can no more write than I 
can fly. Now, in St. Louis’s name, how did they teach it 
you: 


“It was troublesome at first,” said Durward, “but became 
more easy by use; and I was weak with my wounds and 
loss of blood, and desirous to gratify my preserver. Father 
Peter, and so I w’as the more easily kept to my task. But 
after several months’ languishing, my good kind mother died, 
and as my health was now fully restored, I communicated to 
my benefactor, who was also sub-prior of the convent, my 
reluctance to take the vows; and it w^as agreed between us, 


since my vocation lay not to the cloister, that I should be sent 
out into the world to seek my fortune, and that, to save the 
sub-prior from the anger of the Ogilvies, my departure should 
have the appearance of flight; and to colour it, I brought off 
the abbot’s hawk with me. But I was regularly dismissed, as 
will appear from the hand and seal of the abbot himself.” 





82 


Quentin Durward 

“That is right—that is well,” said his uncle. “Our king j 
cares little what other theft thou maj'st have made, but ; 
hath a horror at anything like a breach of the cloister. And , 
I warrant thee, thou hadst no great treasure to bear thy i 
charges?” II 

“Only a few pieces of silver,” said the 3^outh; “for to you, 
fair uncle, 1 must make a free confession.” 

“Alas!” replied Le Balafre, “that is hard. Now, though 
I am never a hoarder of my pay, because it doth ill to bear a 
charge about one in these perilous times, yet I ahvays have— 
and I would advise you to follow my example—some odd 
gold chain, or bracelet, or carcanet,^ that serves for tlie- i 
ornament of my person, and can at need spare a superfluous | 

link or two, or it may be a superfluous stone, for sale, that 

can answer any immediate purpose. But you may ask, fair 
kinsman, how you are to come by such toys as this? (he shook 
his chain with complacent triumph). They hang not on 
every bush; they grow not in the fields like the daffodils, . 

with whose stalks children make knights’ collars. What ; 

then ? you may get such where I got this, in the service of i 
the good King of France, where there is always wealth to be | 
found, if a man has but the heart to seek it., at the risk of a 
little life or so.” 

“I understand,” said Quentin, evading a decision to which | 
he felt himself as yet scarcely competent, “that the Duke of i 
Burgundy keeps a more noble state than the King of France, 
and that there is more honour to be won under his banners, 
that good blows are struck there, and deeds of arms done; 
while the Most Christian King, they say, gains his victories J 
by his ambassadors’ tongues.” • J 

“You speak like a foolish boy, fair nephew,” answered he 
with the scar; “and yet, I bethink me, when I came hither I 
was nearly as simple: I could never think of a king but what 
I supposed him either sitting under the high dais and feasting 


^Carcanet. A necklace of jewels. 


83 


QU EXTIN DURWARD 

amid his high vassals and paladins, eating blanc-manger} 
with a great gold crown upon his head, or else charging at 
the head of his troops like Charlemagne in the romaunts,” or 
like Robert Bruce or William Wallace in our own true his¬ 
tories, such as Barbour and the Minstrel.^ Hark in thine 
ear, man—it is all moonshine in the water. Policy—policy 
does it all. But what is policy, you will say? It is an art 
this French king of ours has found out, to fight with other 
men’s swords, and to wage his soldiers out of other men’s 
purses. Ah! it is the wisest prince that ever put purple on 
his back; and yet he weareth not much of that neither: I see 
him often go plainer than I would think befitted me to do.” 

“But you meet not my exception, fair uncle,” answered 
young Durward; “I would serve, since serve I must in a 
foreign land, somewhere where a brave deed, were it my hap 
to do one, might work me a name.” 

“I understand you, my fair nephew,” said the royal man- 
at-arms—“I understand you passing well; but you are unripe 
in these matters. The Duke of Burgundy is a hot-brained, 
impetuous, pudding-headed, iron-ribbed dare-all. He charges 
at the head of his nobles and native knights, his liegemen of 
Artois and Hainault; think you, if you were there, or if I 
were there myself, that we could be much farther forward 
than the Duke and'all his brave nobles of his own land? 
If we were not up with them, we had a chance to be turned 
on the provost-marshal’s hands for being slow in making to; 
if we were abreast of them, all would be called well, and we 
might be thought to have deserved our pay; and grant that 
I was a spear’s-length or so in the front, which is both 
difficult and dangerous in such a inHee where all do their 
best, why, my lord duke sa^'s, in his Flemish tongue, when he 

^Blanc-manger. Literally “white food;” a delicate dessert. 

^Romaunts. Romances. 

^Barbour and the Minstrel. Barbour was a Scotch poet of the fourteenth 
century, author of a poem on the exploits of Robert^ Bruce; the minstrel was 
“Blind Harry,” a Scotch poet who wrote a long poem descriptive of the exploits 
of Wallace ( about 1460). 




84 


Quentin Durward 

sees a good blow struck, ‘Ha! gut getroffen!^ a good lance | 
a brave Scot | give him a florin to drink our health | but / 
neither rank, nor lands, nor treasures come to the stranger J 
in such a service: all goes to the children of the soil.” . 

“And where should it go, in Heaven’s name, fair uncle?” 1 
demanded young Durward. \ 

“To him that protects the children of the soil,” said 
Balafre, drawing up his gigantic height. “Thus says King f 
Louis: ‘My good French peasant—mine honest Jacques Bon- j 
homme-—get you to your tools, your plough and your harrow, , 
your pruning-knife and your hoe; here is my gallant Scot ’ 
that will fight for you, and you shall only have the trouble I 
to pay him. And you, my most serene duke, my illustrious ; 
count, and my most mighty marquis, e’en rein up your fiery || 
courage till it is wanted, for it is apt to start out of the course, j 
and to hurt its master; here are my companies of ordonnance i 
—here are my French Guards—here are, above all, my Scot- ■ 
tish Archers,'and mine honest Ludovic with the Scar, who 
will fight, as well or better than you, with all that undis¬ 
ciplined valour which, in your fathers’ time, lost Cressy and 
Azincour.^ Now see you not in which of these states a ‘ 
cavalier of fortune holds the highest rank, and must come to ! 
the highest honour?” 

“I think I understand you, fair uncle.,” answered the 
-N nephew; '“but, in my mind, honour cannot be won where < 
there is no risk. Sure, this is—I pray you pardon me—an j 
easy and almost slothful life, to mount guard round an elderly 1 
man whom no one thinks of harming, to spend summer day | 
and winter night up in j^onder battlements, and shut up all ; 
the while in iron cages, for fear you should desert your posts; !j 
uncle—uncle, it is but the hawk upon his perch, who is never y 
carried out to the fields!” 

* ^Gut getroffen. (German). Well hit. 

"^Jacques Bonhomme. Jack Goodfellow; compare the generic name John Bull, i 

^Cressy and Azincour. The battle of Cr6cy, 1346 and that of Agincourt, 1415. 

At Crecy, 80,000 French were defeated by half that number of English; in the 
battle of Agincourt the numbers were still more disproportionate, 15,000 English 
defeating about 60,000 French. 






85 


Quentin Durward 

“Now, by St. Martin of Tours, the boy has some spirit— 
a right touch of the Lesly in him—much like myself, though 
always with a little more folly in it! Hark ye, youth—long 
live the King of France!—scarce a day but there is some com¬ 
mission in hand, by which some of his followers may win both 
coin and credit. Think not that the bravest and most danger¬ 
ous deeds are done by daylight. I could tell you of some, as 
scaling castles, making prisoners,, and the like, where one who 
shall be nameless hath run higher risk, and gained greater 
favour, than any desperado in the train of desperate Charles 
of Burgundy. And if it please his Majesty to remain behind 
and in the background while such things are doing, he hath 
the more leisure of spirit to admire, and the more liberality of 
hand to reward, the adventurers, whose dangers, perhaps, and 
whose feats of arms, he can better judge of than if he had 
personally shared them. O, ’tis a sagacious and most politic 
monarch I” 

His nephew paused, and then said, in a low but impressive 
tone of voice, “The good Father Peter used often to teach 
me there might be much danger in deeds by which little glory 
was acquired. I need not say to you, fair uncle, that I do 
in course suppose that these secret commissions must needs be 
honourable.” ' 

“For whom or for what take you me, fair nephew?” said 
Balafre, somewhat sternly; “I have not been trained, indeed, 
in the cloister, neither can I write nor read. But I am your 
mother’s brother: I am a loyal Lesly. Think you that I am 
like to recommend to you anything unworthy? The best 
knight in France, Du Guesclin^ himself, if he were alive 
again, might be proud to number my deeds among his achieve¬ 
ments.” 

“I cannot doubt your warranty, fair uncle,” said the 
')'Outh; “you are the only adviser my mishap has left me. But 
is it true, as fame says, that this king keeps a meagrei court 

^Du Guesclin. Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of France; her greatest 
soldier during the fourteenth century 


86 


Quentin Durward 

here at his Castle of Plessis? No repair of nobles or cour- i 
tiers, none of his grand feudatories in attendance, none of the i 
high officers of the crown; half solitary sports, shared only 
with the menials of his household; secret councils, to which j 
only low and obscure men are invited; rank and nobility 
depressed, and men raised from the lowest origin to the i 
kingly favour—all this seems unregulated, resembles not the 
manners of his father, the noble Charles, who tore from the 
fangs of the English lion this more than half-conquered king¬ 
dom of France.” ^ 

“You speak like a giddy child,” said Le Balafre; “and 
even as a child,, 5 ^ou harp over the same notes on a new 
string. Look you: if the King employs Oliver Dain, his 
barber, to do what Oliver can do better than any peer of 
them all, is not the kingdom the gainer? If he bids his stout ^ 
provost-marshal, Tristan, arrest such or such a seditious 
burgher, take off such or such a turbulent noble, the deed , 
is done and no more of it; when, were the commission given 
to a duke or peer of France, he might perchance send the 
King back a defiance in exchange. If, again, the King pleases ^ 
to give to plain Ludovic le Balafre a commission which he 
will execute, instead of employing the high constable, who 
would perhaps betray it, doth it not show wisdom? Above ‘ 
all, doth not a monarch of such conditions best suit cavaliers | 
of fortune, who must go where their services are most highly 
prized and most frequently in demand? No—no, child,, I ; 

tell thee Louis knows how to choose his confidants, and what i 
to charge them with, suiting, as they say, the burden to each ; 
man’s back. He is not like the King of Castile,^ who choked ■ 
of thirst because the great butler was not beside to hand his 

"^The Noble Charles, etc. Charles VII. was surnamed “the Victorious,” because ' 
of the success of his armies. It was in his reign that England lost her large < 
territorial possessions in France. l 

^ King of Castile. Among the many traditions illustrating the extravagant 
ideas of etiquette which formerly ruled the royal court of Spain, is one that the ] 
death of Philip III. was due to a similar cause. His Majesty, finding the heat of > 
a brazier too oppressive, asked that it be removed; but the proper functionary j 
not being at hand, no one of the king’s attendants was willing to act, and so the 1 
poor monarch became fatally ill. | 




87 


Quentin Durward 

cup. But hark to the bell of St. jVIartin’s! I must hasten 
back^to the castle. Farewell; make much of yourself, and at 
eight to-morrow morning present yourself before the draw¬ 
bridge, and ask the sentinel for me. Take heed you step not 
off the straight and beaten path in approaching the portal! 
There are such traps and snap-haunches as may cost you a 
limb, which you will sorely miss. You shall see the King, 
and learn to judge him for yourself. Farewell.” 

So saying, Balafre hastily departed, forgetting, in his 
hurry, to pay for the wine he had called for—a shortness of 
memory incidental to persons of his description, and which 
his host, overawed, perhaps, by the nodding bonnet and pon¬ 
derous two-handed sword,, did not presume to use any efforts 
for correcting. 

It might have been expected that, when left alone, Dur¬ 
ward would have again betaken himself to his turret, in 
order to watch for the repetition of those delicious sounds 
which had soothed his morning reverie. But that was a 
chapter of romance, and his uncle s conversation had opened 
to him a page of the real history of life. It was no pleasing 
one, and for the present the recollections and reflections which 
it excited were qualified to overpower other thoughts, and 
especially all of a light and soothing nature. 

Quentin resorted to a solitary walk along the banks of the 
rapid Cher, having previously inquired of his landlord for one 
which he might traverse without fear of disagreeable interrup¬ 
tion from snares and pitfalls, and there endeavored to compose 
his turmoiled and scattered thoughts, and consider his future 
motions, upon which his meeting with his uncle had thrown 
some dubiety. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE BOHEMIANS ' 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, ^ 

Sae dauntingly gaed he, 

He play’d a spring ^ and danced a round 

Beneath the gallows-tree ! I 

Old So7ig. t 

The manner in which Quentin Durward had been . 
educated was not of a kind to soften the heart,, or perhaps i 
to improve the moral feeling. He, with the rest of his j 
family, had been trained to the chase as an amusement, and ' 
taught to consider war as their only serious occupation, and t 
that it was the great duty of their lives stubbornly to endure, j 
and fiercely to retaliate, the attacks of their feudal enemies, 
by whom their race had been at last almost annihilated. And I 
yet there mixed with these feuds a spirit of rude chivalry, and i 
even courtesy, which softened their rigour; so that revenge, 1 
their only justice,, was still prosecuted with some regard to ^ 
humanity and generosity. The lessons of the worthy old 
monk, better attended to, perhaps, during a long illness and 
adversity than they might have been in health and success, 1 
had given young Durward still farther insight into the duties j 
of humanity towards others; and, considering the ignorance . 
of the period, the general prejudices entertained in favour of 
a military life, and the manner in which he himself had been \ 
bred, the youth was disposed to feel more accurately the j 
moral duties incumbent on his station than was usual at the ] 
time. j 

He reflected on his interview "with his uncle with a sense ^ 
of embarrassment and disappointment. His hopes had been i 
high; for although intercourse by letters was out of the I 
question, yet a pilgrim, or an adventurous trafficker, or a ' 

^spring. A lively tune. 


88 



E 


Quentin Durward • 89 

crippled soldier, sometimes brought Lesly’s name to Glen 
Houlakin, and all united in praising his undaunted courage, 
and his success in many petty enterprises which his master 
had entrusted to him. Quentin’s imagination had filled up 
the sketch in his own way, and assimilated his successful and 
adventurous uncle (whose exploits probably lost nothing in 
tlie telling) to some of the champions and knights-errant of 
whom minstrels sang, and who won crowns and kings’ 
daughters by dint of sword and lance. He was now com¬ 
pelled to rank his kinsman greatly lower in the scale of 
chivalry; but, blinded by the high respect paid to parents 
and those who approach that character, moved by every early 
prejudice in his favour, inexperienced besides, and passionately 
attached to his mother’s memory, he saw not, in the only 
brother of that dear relation, the character he truly held, 
which w^as that of an ordinary mercenary soldier, neither 
much worse nor greatly better than many of the same pro¬ 
fession whose presence added to the distracted state of France. 

Without being wantonly cruel, Le Balafre was, from 
habit, indifferent to human life and human suffering; he was 
profoundly ignorant, greedy of booty, unscrupulous how he 
acquired it, and profuse in expending it on the gratification 
of his passions. The habit of attending exclusively to his 
own wants and interests had converted him into one of the 
most relfish animals in the world; so that he was seldom 
able, as the reader may have remarked, to proceed far in any 
subject without considering how it applied to himself, or, as 
it is called, making the case his own, though not upon feelings 
connected with the golden rule, but such as were very dif¬ 
ferent. To this must be added, that the narrow round of 
his duties and his pleasures had gradually circumscribed his 
thoughts, hopes, and wishes, and quenched in a great measure 
the wild spirit of honour, and desire of distinction in arms, 
by which his youth had been once animated. Balafre was, 
in short, a keen soldier, hardened, selfish, and narrow-minded; 
active and bold in the discharge of his duty, but acknowledg- 






90 


Q U EN TIN D U R\VARD 


ing few objects beyond it, except the formal observance ot a 
careless devotion, relieved by an occasional debauch with 
brother Boniface, his comrade and confessor. Had his 
genius been of a more extended character, he would probable- 
have been promoted to some important command, for the 
King, who knew every soldier of his body-guard personally, 
reposed much confidence in Balafre’s courage and fidelity; 
and, besides, the Scot had either wisdom or cunning enough 
perfectly to understand, and ably to humour, the peculiarities 
of that sovereign. Still, however, his capacity was too much ; 
limited to admit of his rising to higher rank, and thougli 
smiled on and favoured by Louis on many occasions, Balafre i 
continued a mere Life-Guardsman, or Scottish Archer. 

Without seeing the full scope of his uncle’s character, 
Quentin felt shocked at his indifference to the disastrous 
extirpation of his brother-in-law’s whole family, and could 
not help being surprised, moreover, that so near a relative 
had not offered him the assistance of his purse, which, but 
for the generosity of Maitre Pierre, he would have been 
under the necessity of directly craving from him. He 
wronged his uncle, however, in supposing that this want of 
attention to his probable necessities was owing to avarice. 
Not precisely needing money himself at that moment, it had 
not occurred to Balafre that his nephew might be in exigen¬ 
cies ; otherwise, he held a near kinsman so much a part of 
liimself, that he would have provided for the weal of the 1 

living nephew., as he endeavoured to do for that of his 

deceased sister and her husband. But, whatever was the ' 
motive, the neglect was very unsatisfactory to young Dur- 
ward, and he wished more than once he had taken service 
with the Duke of Burgundy before he quarrelled with his ^ 
forester. “Whatever had then become of me,” he thought 

to himself, “I should alwa 3 s have been able to keep up my 

spirits with the reflection that I had in case of the worst, a 
stout back-friend in this uncle of mine. But now I have 
seen him, and, woe worth him! there has been more help 




Quentin Durward 


91 


in a mere mechanical stranger than I have found in my own 
mother’s brother, my countryman and a cavalier. One 
would think the slash, that has carved all comeliness out of 
his face, had let at the same time every drop of gentle blood 
I fout of his body.” 

Durward now regretted he had not had an opportunity to 
l^imention Maitre Pierre to Le Balafre, in the hope of obtain¬ 
ing some farther account of that personage; but his uncle’s 
questions had followed fast on each other, and the summons 
of the great bell of St. Martin of Tours had broken off their 
conference rather suddenly. “That old man,” he thought to 
himself, “was crabbed and dogged in appearance, sharp and 
scornful in language, but generous and liberal in his actions; 

' and such a stranger is worth a cold kinsman. What says our 
old Scottish proverb? ‘Better kind fremit, than fremit 
kindred.’ ^ I will find out that man, which, methinks, should 
be no difficult task, since he is so wealthy as mine host 
bespeaks him. He will give me good advice for my govern¬ 
ance at least; and if he goes to strange countries, as many 
isLich do, I know not but his may be as adventurous a service 
as that of those guards of Louis.” 

As Quentin framed this thought, a whisper from those 
recesses of the heart in which lies much that the owner does 
' not know of, or will not acknowledge willingly, suggested 
• that, perchance, the lady of the turret, she of the veil and 
lute, might share that adventurous journey. 

' As the Scottish youth made these reflections, he met two 
grave-looking men, apparently citizens of Tours, whom, 
doffing his cap with the reverence due from youth to age, 
he respectfully asked to direct him to the house of Maitre 
Pierre. 

“The house of whom, my fair son?” said one of the pas¬ 
sengers. 

i Better kind fremit, etc. “Better kind strangers than estranged kindred.“ 
The motto is engraved on a dirk belonging to a person who had but too much 
reaLn?o choose fuch a device. It was left by him to my father, and is connected 
with a strange course of adventures, which may one day be told. The weapon is 
now in my possession.— Scott. 





92 


Quentin Durward 

“Of Maitre Pierre, the great silk merchant, who planted 
all the mulberry-trees in the park yonder.,” said Durward. 

“Young man,” said one of them who was nearest to him, i 
“you have taken up an idle trade a little too early.” |: 

“And have chosen wrong subjects to practise your fool- |! 
eries upon,” said the farther one, still more gruffly. “The j 
syndic of Tours is not accustomed to be thus talked to by | 
strolling jesters from foreign parts.” ' 

Quentin was so much surprised at the causeless offence 
which these two decent-looking persons had taken at a very 
simple and civil question, that he forgot to be angry at the 
rudeness of their reply, and stood staring after them as they ;| 
walked on with amended pace, often looking back at him, 
as if they were desirous to get as soon as possible out of his 
reach. 

He next met a party of vine-dressers, and addressed, to 
them the same question; and, in reply, they demanded to 
know whether he wanted Maitre Pierre the schoolmaster, or 
Maitre Pierre the carpenter, or Maitre Pierre the beadle, or 
half a dozen of Maitre Pierres besides. When none of these , 
corresponded with the description of the person after whom 
he inquired, the peasants accused him of jesting with them i 
impertinently, and threatened to fall upon him and beat him, | 
in guerdon ^ of his raillery. The oldest amongst them, who 
had some influence over the rest, prevailed on them to desist 
from violence. 

“You see by his speech and his fool’s cap,” said he, “that | 
he is one of the foreign mountebanks who are come into the 
country, and whom some call magicians and soothsayers, and 
some jugglers, and the like, and there is no knowing what 
tricks they have amongst them. I have heard of such a one 
paying a Hard" to eat his bellyful of grapes in a poor man’s 
vineyard; and he ate as many as would have loaded a wain, 

^Guerdon. A reward. 

"^TJard. A very small coin, a quarter of a cent. 






93 


Quentin Durward 


and never undid a button of his jerkin; and so let him pass 
quietl}^ and keep his way, as we will keep ours. And you, 
friend, if you would shun worse, walk quietly on, in the name 
of God, our Lady of Marmoutier, and St. Martin of Tours,^ 
and trouble us no more about your Maitre Pierre, which may 
be another name for the devil, for aught we know.” V 

The Scot, finding himself much the weaker party, judged 
it his wisest course to walk on without reply; but the pea¬ 
sants, who at first shrunk from him in horror at his supposed 
talents for sorcery and grape-devouring, took heart of grace 
as he got to a distance, and having uttered a few cries and 
curses, finally gave them emphasis with a shower of stones, 
although at such a distance as to do little or no harm to the 
object of their displeasure. Quentin, as he pursued his walk, 
began to think, in his turn, either that he himself lay under a 
spell or that the people of Touraine were the most stupid, 
brutal, and inhospitable of the French peasants. The next 
incident which came under his observation did not tend to 
diminish this opinion. 

On a slight eminence rising above the rapid and beautiful 
Cher, in the direct line of his path, two or three large chest¬ 
nut trees were so happily placed as to form a distinguished 
and remarkable group; and beside them stood three or four 
peasants, motionless, with their eyes turned upwards, and 
fixed, apparently, upon some object amongst the branches of 
the tree next to them. The meditations of youth are seldom 
so profound as not to yield to the slightest impulse of curios¬ 
ity, as easily as the lightest pebble, dropped casually from the 
hand, breaks the surface of a limpid pool. Quentin hastened 
his pace, and ran lightly up the rising ground, time enough 
to witness the ghastly spectacle which attracted the notice ^of 
these gazers—which was nothing less than the body of a man, 
convulsed by the last agony, suspended on one of the branches. 

“Why do you not cut him down?” said the young Scot, 


lOwr Lady of Marmoutier, and St. Martin of Tours. Onr Lady the Virgin 
f the Abbey Marmoutier, in the outskirts of Tours, founded in the fourth century 
y Bishop Martin who was canonized as a saint. 


94 


Quentin Durward 


whose hand was as ready to assist affliction as to maintain his 
own honour when he deemed it assailed. 


F 


One of the peasants, turning on him an eye from which, 
fear had banished all expression but its own, and a face asj 
pale as clay, pointed to a mark cut upon the bark of the tree,| 
having the same rude resemblance to a fteiir-de-lys which!' 
certain talismanic scratches, well known to our revenue! 
officers, bear to a broad arrow.^ Neither understanding nor' 
heeding the import of this symbol, young Durward sprung! 
lightly as the ounce up into the tree, drew from his pouch 
that most necessary implement of a Highlander or woodsman,] 
the trusty skene dhu,~ and calling to those below to receive!*^ 
the body on their hands, cut the rope asunder in less than a( 
minute after he had perceived the exigency. ! 

But his humanity was ill seconded by the bystanders. So| 
far from rendering Durward any assistance, they seemed ter-i^ 
rified at the audacity of his action, and took to flight with! 
one consent, as if they 'feared their merely looking on might ! 
have been construed into accession to his daring deed. The j 
body, unsupported from beneath, fell heavily to earth, in such * 
a manner that Quentin, who presently afterwards jumped 4 
down, had the mortification to see that the last sparks of life ; • 
were extinguished. He gave not up his charitable purpose, i 
however, without farther efforts. He freed the wretched ^ ^ 
man’s neck from the fatal noose, undid the doublet, threw '' 
water on the face, and practised the other ordinary remedies 
resorted to for recalling suspended animation. 

While he was thus humanely engaged, a wild clamour of ^ 
tongues, speaking a language which he knew not, arose around * i 
him; and he had scarcely time to observe that he was siir- 
rounded by several men and women of a singular and foreign 
appearance, when he found himself roughly seized by both 1 


^A broad arrow. The conventional symbol with which the British Govern- I 
ment marks its ordnance, and its military stores; it is felony to obliterate or i 
deface it. * 

'^Skene dhu. Black knife; a species of knife without clasp or hinge, formerly I 
much used by the Highlanders, who seldom travelled without such an ugly 
weapon, though it is now rarely used.— Scott. I 






I Quentin Durward 95 

1 

vms, while a naked knife at the same moment was offered to 
Sis throat. 

“Pale slave of Eblis!”^ said a man in imperfect French 
|“are you robbing him you have murdered ? But we have you, 
fand you shall abye it.” 

I There were knives drawn on every side of him as these 
•words were spoken, and the grim and distorted countenances 
Which glared on him were like those of wolves rushing on 
their prey. 

Still the young Scot’s courage and presence of mind bore 
him out. “What mean ye, my masters?” he said. “If that 
be your friend’s body, I have just now cut him down in pure 
jharity, and you will do better to try to recover his life than 
to misuse an innocent stranger to whom he owes his chance of 
escape.” 

The women had by this time taken possession of the dead 
body, and continued the attempts to recover animation which 
Durw’ard had been making use of, though wdth the like bad 
success; so that, desisting from their fruitless efforts, they 
. seemed to abandon themselves to all the Oriental expressions 
; of grief; the women making a piteous w'ailing, and tearing 
; their long black hair, while the men seemed to rend their 
I garments and to sprinkle dust upon their heads. They 
; ijradually became so much engaged in their mourning rites, 
i^hat they bestowed no longer any attention on Durward, of 

( whose innocence they were probably satisfied from circum¬ 
stances. It would certainly have been his wisest plan to have 
jleft these wild people to their own courses, but he had been 
bred in almost reckless contempt of danger, and felt all the 
jeagerness of youthful curiosity. 

j The singular assemblage," both male and female, wore 
turbans and caps, more similar, in general appearance, to his 
own bonnet than to the hats commonly worn in France. 
Several of the men had curled black beards, and the com- 

V ^Ehlis. In Mohammedan mythology, the chief of the fallen angel? 
singular assemblage. See Note 5 at end of the novel. 









96 Quentin Durward 

plexion of all was nearly as dark as that of Africans. Or^ 
or two, who seemed their chiefs, had some taw^dry orna 
ments of silver about their necks and in their ears, and wor 
showy scarfs of yellow, or scarlet, or light green; but thei| 
legs and arms were bare, and the whole troop seeme^ 
wretched and squalid in appearance. There were no weapon^ 
among them that Durward saw, except the long knives witi 
which they had lately menaced him, and one short crooked 
sabre, or Moorish sword, which was worn by an active-look 
ing young man, who often laid his hand upon the hilt, whil 
he surpassed the rest of the party in his extravagant expres 
sions of grief, and seemed to mingle with them threats o 
vengeance. 

The disordered and yelling group were so different ii 
appearance from any beings whom Quentin had yet seer 
that he was on the point of concluding them to be a party o 
Saracens, of those “heathen hounds” who were the opponent 
of gentle knights and Christian monarchs in all the romance 
which he had heard or read, and was about to withdraw him 
self from a neighbourhood so perilous, when a galloping o 
horse was heard, and the supposed Saracens, who had raise, 
by this time the body of their comrade upon their shoulders 
were at once charged by a party of French soldiers. i 

This sudden apparition changed the measured wailing o 
the mourners into irregular shrieks of terror. The bod 
was thrown to the ground in an instant, and those who wer 
around it showed the utmost and most dexterous activity ii 
escaping, under the bellies as it were of the horses, from th 
point of the lances which were levelled at them wnth exclama 
tions of “Down with the accursed heathen thieves—take an* 
kill—bind them like^beasts—spear them like wolves!” 

These cries were accompanied with corresponding acts o 
violence; but such was the alertness of the fugitives, th 
ground being rendered unfavourable to the horsemen b;: 
thickets and bushes, that only two were struck down aiK 
made prisoners, one of whom was the young fellow with tji 




^ ^ Quentin Durward 97 

I j^ord, who had previously offered some resistance. Quentin, 
prj^whom fortune seemed at this period to have chosen for the 
butff of her shafts, was at the same time seized by the soldiers, 
and his arms, in spite of his remonstrances, bound down 
with a cord, those who apprehended him showing a readiness 
iti^and despatch in the operation which proved them to be no 
...^novices in matters of police. 

Looking anxiously to the leader of the horsemen, from 
I j whom he hoped to obtain liberty, Quentin knew not exactly 
j whether to be pleased or alarmed upon recognising in him 
I Olathe down-looking and silent companion of Maitre Pierre. 
True, whatever crime these stranprs might be accused of, 
n^is officer might know, from the history of the morning, that 
PPk, Durward, had no connexion with them whatever; but it 
o was a more difficult question whether this sullen man would 
nrbeeither a favourable judge or a willing witness in his behalf, 
ee and he felt doubtful whether he would mend his condition by 
j„i making any direct application to him. 
oi 1 But there was little leisure for hesitation. “Trois- 
<e Ekhelles and Petit-Andre,” ^ said the down-looking officer 
T. to two of his band, “these same trees stand here quite con- 
! venient. I will teach these misbelieving, thieving sorcerers 
; ctointerfere wdth the King’s justice, when it has visited any of 
Air accursed race. Dismount, my children, and do your 
eijrace briskly.” 

i Trois-Eschelles and Petit-Andre w’ere in an instant on 
tbjoot, and Quentin observed that they had each at the crupper 
Tifsnd pommel of his saddle, a coil or two of ropes, which they 
Astily undid, and showed that, in fact, each coil formed a 
klter, with the fatal noose adjusted, ready for execution. 

: (The blood ran cold in Quentin’s veins when he saw three 
tbfords selected, and perceived that it w^as proposed to put one 
f'Sround his own neck. He called on the officer loudly, 

d ^Bult. A target used in archery. 

' ^Trois-Esrhelles and Petit-Andre. Three-Ladders and Little Andrew; com¬ 
pare the description of the personal appearance of these men, page 100. 





98 


Quentin Durward 

reminded him of their meeting that morning, claimed 
right of a free-born Scotsman, in a friendly and allied 
country, and denied any knowledge of the persons along with 
whom he was seized, or of their misdeeds. i,, 

The officer whom Durward thus addressed scarce deignedj 
to look at him while he was speaking, and took no notice 
whatever of the claim he preferred to prior acquaintance;| 
He barely turned to one or tvv^o of the peasants who w^rt 
now come forward, either to volunteer their evidence againit( 
the prisoners or out of curiosity, and said gruffly, “Was 
yonder young fellow with the vagabonds?” 

“That he was, sir, and it please your noble provostshipjlj 
answered one of the clowns; “he was the very first blasphe* 
mously to cut down the rascal whom his Majesty’s justice 
most deservedly hung up, as we told your worship.” ' 

“I’ll swear by God and St. Martin of Tours to have seen 
him with their gang,” said another, “when they pillaged oiii 
metairie.”^ 

“Nay, but, father,” said a boy, “yonder heathen was 
black, and this youth is fair; yonder one had short curled 
hair, and this hath long fair locks.” 

“Ay, child,” said the peasants, “and perhaps you will si||) 
yonder one had a green coat and this a grey jerkin. But ffis 
worship, the provost, knows that they can change their coni| 
plexions as easily as their jerkins, so that I am still minded 
was the same.” 

“It is enough that you have seen him intermeddle wijf 
the course of the King’s justice, by attempting to recover 
executed traitor,” said tlie officer. “Trois-Eschelles arid 
Petit-Andre, despatch.” 

“Stay, seignior, officer!” exclaimed the youth, in mortal 
agony—“hear me speak—let me not die guiltlessly; m3 
blood will be required of you by my countrymen in thi: 
world, and by Heaven’s justice in that which is to follow.’^ 


^Metairie. Farmhouse. 



Quentin Durward 


99 


^ “I will answer for my actions in both,” said the provost, 
^boldly, and made a sign with his left hand to the executioners; 
"fhen, with a smile of triumphant malice, touched with his 
ifhre-finger his right arm, which hung suspended in a scarf, 
disabled probably by the blow which Durward had dealt him 
Kthat morning. 

I “Miserable, vindictive wretch!” answ^ered Quentin, per- 
csuaded by that action that private revenge was the sole 
tmptive of this man’s rigour, and that no mercy whatever 
iiivas to be expected from him. 

. “The poor youth raves,” said the functionary; “speak a 
word of comfort to him ere he make his transit, Trois- 
ph^helles; thou art a comfortable man in such cases, when a 
hconfessor is not to be had. Give him one minute of ghostly 
iidvice, and despatch matters in the next. I must proceed on 
:he rounds. Soldiers, follow me!” 
ee The provost rode on, followed by his guard, excepting 
)(;WO or three, who were left to assist in the execution. The 
inhappy youth cast after him an eye almost darkened by 
lespair, and thought he heard,, in every tramp of his horse’s 
P(^^etreating hoofs, the last slight chance of his safety vanish. 
it looked around him in agony, and was surprised, even in 
moment, to see the stoical indifference of his fellow- 
j^>risoners. They had previously testified every sign of fear, 
made every effort to escape; but now, when secured, and 
’destined apparently to inevitable death, they awaited its 
arrival with the utmost composure. The scene of fate before 
•jthem gave, perhaps, a more yellow tinge to their swarthy 
:heeks; but it neither agitated their features nor quenched 
the stubborn haughtiness of their eye. They seemed like 
foxes, which, after all their wiles and artful attempts at 
escape are exhausted, die with a silent and sullen fortitude, 
Vhich wolves and bears, the fiercer objects of the chase, do 
®iot exhibit. 

, They were undaunted by the conduct of the fatal execu- 
ioners, who went about their work with more deliberation 




100 


Quextix Durward 

than their master had recommended, and which probab^^ 
arose from their having acquired by habit a kind of pleasure ; 
in the discharge of their horrid office. We pause an instant,^ 
to describe them, because under a tyranny, whether despotic ^ 
or popular, the character of the hangman becomes a subject ., 
of grave importance. 

These functionaries were essentially different in their ^ 
appearance and manners. Louis used to call them Demo-j, 
critus and Heraclitus,^ and their master, the provost, termed' 
them Jean qui pleure and Jean qui ritJ 

Trols-Eschelles was a tall, thin, ghastly man, with a 
peculiar gravity of visage, and a large rosary round his neck, 
the use of which he was accustomed piously to offer to thos^f 
sufferers on whom he did his duty. He had one or two Latin 
texts continually in his mouth on the nothingness and vanity’.' 
of human life; and, had it been regular to have enjoyed'V 
such a plurality, he might have held the office of confessor to',I 
the jail in comniendarn^ with that of executioner. Petit-f 
Andre, on the contrary, was a joyous-looking, round, active I 
little fellow, who rolled about in execution of his duty as If" 
it were the most diverting occupation In the world. He^ 
seemed to have a sort of fond affection for his victims, and'' 
always spoke of them in kindly and affectionate terms. They j 
were his poor honest fellows, his pretty dears, his gossips. Ids j 
good old fathers, as their age or sex might be; and as Troi?^ 
Eschelles endeavoured to inspire them with a philosophical on 
religious regard to futurity, Petit-Andre seldom failed to 
refresh them with a jest or two, as if to induce them to' 
pass from life as something that was ludicrous, contemptible, 
and not worthy of serious consideration. 

I cannot tell why or wherefore it was, but these twoi 
excellent persons, notwithstanding the variety of their talents ^ 

^Democritus and Heraclitus. Two Greek philosophers. Democritus, being | 
of a cheerful disposition, laughed at the follies of men and was called, therefore, j 
"the laughing philosopher;” in tradition, Heraclitus is called “the weeping philos¬ 
opher,” from his gloomy view of life. I 

Vcan qui pleure and Jean qui rit. John who weeps and John who laughs. J 
commendam. < In trust, along with. j 


Quentin Durward 


101 


the rare occurrence of such among persons of their pro- 
‘"fession, were both more utterly detested than, perhaps, any 
^‘creatures of their kind, whether before or since; and the 
^'only doubt of those who knew aught of them was, whether 
' the grave and pathetic Trois-Eschelles or the frisky, comic, 
alert Petit-Andre^ was the object of the greatest fear or of 
Ahe deepest execration: It is certain they bore the palm in 
both particulars over every hangman in France, unless it were 
perhaps their master, Tristan I’Hermite, the renowned pro¬ 
vost-marshal, or his master, Louis XI. 

I It must not be supposed that these reflections were of 
i.vQuentin Durward’s making. Life, death, time, and eternity 
iiwere swimming before his eyes—a stunning and overwhelm- 
ring prospect, from which human nature recoiled in its 
elweakness, though human pride would fain have borne up. 
tiHe addressed himself to the God of his fathers; and when 
ithe did so, the little rude and unroofed chapel, which now 
v'held almost all his race but himself, rushed on his recollection. 
I‘‘Our feudal enemies gave my kindred graves in our own 
Mand,” he thought, “but I must feed the ravens and kites of a 
ilforeign land, like an excommunicated felon!” The tears 
fgoshed involuntarily from his eyes. Trois-Eschelles, touch- 
iiing one shoulder, gravely congratulated him on his Heavenly 
i ^isposition for death, and pathetically exclaiming, ''Beati qui 

Domino moriu 7 itur'~ remarked the soul was happy that 
^‘’eft the body while the tear was in the eye. Petit-Andre, 
^‘'dapping the other shoulder,, called out, “Courage, my fair 
^^'on! since you must begin the dance, let the ball open gaily, 
or all the rebecs^ are in tune,” twitching the halter at the 
^‘'^ame time, to give point to his joke. As the youth turned 
'^Sis dismayed looks first on one and then on the other, they 
Dfnade their meaning plainer by gently urging him forward to 

re 

IS 

^Petit Andri. See Note 6 at end of the novel. 

^Beati qui, etc. Blessed are they who die in the Lord. 

^Rebecs. Ancient musical instruments resembling a violin with one string. 


102 


Quentin Durward j 

the fatal tree, and bidding him be of good courage, for 
would be over in a moment. i 

In this fatal predicament, the youth cast a distracted look - 
around him. “Is there any good Christian who hears me,” 
he said, “that will tell Ludovic Lesly of the Scottish Guar 4 , 
called in this country Le Balafre, that his nephew is here ^ 
basely murdered?” 

The words were spoken in good time, for an archer of 
the Scottish Guard, attracted by the preparations for the, 
execution, was standing by, with one or two other chancp, 
passengers, to witness what w^as passing. 

“Take heed what you do,” he said to the executioners; , 
“if this young man be of Scottish birth, I will not permit’ 
him to have foul play.” 

“Heaven forbid, sir cavalier,” said Trois-Eschelles; “but , 
we must obey our orders,” drawing Durward forward by 
one arm. 

“The shortest play is ever the fairest,” said Petit-Andre, ^ 
pulling him onward by the other. i 

But Quentin had heard words of comfort, and, exerting 
his strength, he suddenly shook off both the finishers of the 
law, and, with his arms still bound, ran to the Scottish archer. 
“Stand by me, countryman,” he said in his own language, 
“for the love of Scotland and St. Andrew]^ I am innocent 
—I am your own native landsman. Stand by me, as yoj' 
shall answer at the last day!” 

“By St. Andrew! they shall make at you through me,” 
said the archer, and unsheathed his sword. 

“Cut my bonds, countryman,” said Quentin, “and I will 
do something for myself.” 

This was done with a touch of the archer’s weapon; and 
the liberated captive, springing suddenly on one of the pro¬ 
vost’s guard, wrested from him a halberd with which he wgs 
armed. “And now,” he said, “come on, if yo\i dare!” 

The two officers whispered together. j 


15/. Andrew. The Datron saint of Scotland. 




103 


Quentin Durward 

“Ride thou after the provost-marshal,” said Trois- 
Eschelles, “and I will detain them here, if I can. Soldiers 
of the provost’s guard, stand to your arms.” 

Petit-Andre mounted his horse and left the field, and the 
other marshals-men in attendance drew together so hastily 
at the command of Trois-Eschelles, that they suffered the 
other two prisoners to make their escape during the confusion. 
Perhaps they were not very anxious to detain them; for they 
'had of late been sated with the blood of such wretches, and, 

' like other ferocious animals, were, through long slaughter, 
become tired of carnage. But the pretext was, that they 
thought themselves immediately called upon to attend to 

safety of Trois-Eschelles; for there was a jealousy which 
occasionally led to open quarrels betwixt the Scottish Archers 
and the marshal’s guards., who executed the orders of their 
provost. 

“We are strong enough to beat the proud Scots twice 
over, if it be your pleasure,” said one of these soldiers to 
Trois-Eschelles. 

But that cautious official made a sign to him to remain 
qiiiet, and addressed the Scottish archer with great civility. 
“Surely, sir, this is a great insult to the provost-marshal, that 
you should presume to interfere with the course of the King s 
justice, duly and lawfully committed to his charge ; and it is 
(no act of justice to me, who am in lawful possession of my 
criminal. Neither is it a well-meant kindness to the youth 
himself, seeing that fifty opportunities of hanging him may 
occur, without his being found in so happy a state of prep¬ 
aration as he was before your ill-advised interference. ^ 

“If my young countryman,” said the Scot, smiling, be of 
opinion I have done him an injury,^ I yvfill return him to your 
charge without a word more dispute. 

“No, no!—for the love of Heaven, no!” exclaimed 
Quentin. “I would rather you swept my head off with your 
long sword; it would better become my birth than to die 
by the hands of such a foul churl. 


104 


Q U E y T1X D URWARD 


“Hear how he revileth!” said the finisher of the law^ 
“Alas! how soon our best resolutions pass away! He was 
in a blessed frame for departure but now, and in two minutes 
he has become a contemner of authorities.” 

. Tell me at once,, ’ said the archer, “what has this young 
man done?” 

Interfered, answered Trois-Eschelles, with some earn¬ 
estness, to take down the dead body of a criminal, when the 
fleur-de-lys was marked on the tree where he was hung with 
my own proper hand.” 

“How is this, young man?” said the archer; “how came 
you to have committed such an offence?” 

“As I desire your protection,” answered Durward, “I will« 
tell you the truth as if I were at confession. I saw a man 
struggling on the tree, and I went to cut him down out of 
mere humanity. I thought neither of fieur-de-lys nor of 
clove-gilliflower, and had no more idea of offending the 
King of France than our father the Pope.” 

“W^at a murrain had you to do with the dead body 
t en. said the archer. You’ll see them hanging, in the 
rear of this gentleman, like grapes on every tree, and you 
will have enough to do in this country if you go a-gleaning 
after the hangman. However, I will not quit a country¬ 
man s cause if I can help it. Hark ye, master marshals-man, 
you see this is entirely a mistake. You should have some ^ 
compassion on so young a traveller. In our country at home 
he has not been accustomed to see such active proceedings as 
j’ours and your master’s.” 

P archer,” said 

Petit-Andre who returned at this moment. “Stand fast, 

Trois-Eschelles, for here, comes the provost-marshal; we 

om work taken 

out of his hand before it is finished ” 

n., 

Accordingly, as the Provost Tristan rode up with his ' 


Quentin Durward 


105 


.Itrol on one side of the little hill which was the scene of the 
'3Saltercation, four or five Scottish archers came as hastily up 
^^'on the other, and at their head the Balafre himself. 

Upon this urgency, Lesly showed none of that indifference 
igtowards his nephew of which Quentin had in his heart accused 
him; for he no sooner saw his comrade and Durward stand- 
]-ing upon their defence than he exclaimed, “Cunningham, I 
lethank thee. Gentlemen—comrades, lend me your aid. It 
his; a young Scottish gentleman—my nephew. Lindesay— 
Guthrie—Tyrie, draw and strike in!” 
e There was now every prospect of a desperate scuffle 
between the parties, who were not so disproportioned in num- 
11 .4is but that the better arms of the Scottish cavaliers gave 
n them an equal chance of victory. But the provost-marshal, 
f either doubting the issue of the conflict or a’ware that it 
f would be disagreeable to the King, made a sign to his 
e followers to forbear from violence, while he demanded of 
Balafre, who now put himself forw^ard as the head of the 
, other party, “What he, a cavalier of the King’s Body-Guard, 
2 purposed by opposing the execution of a criminal?” 

;i i “I deny that I do so,” answered the Balafre. “St. Mar- 
tin! there is, I think, some difference between the execution 
^ of a criminal and the slaughter of my own nephew?” 

I “Your nephew may be a criminal as well as another, 
iignior,” said the provost-marshal; “and every stranger in 
France is amenable to the laws of France.” 

“Yes, but we have privileges, we Scottish Archers,” said 
Balafre “have we not, comrades?” 

“Yes—yes,” they all exclaimed together. “Privileges— 
privileges! Long live King Louis—long live the bold Bala¬ 
fre—long live the Scottish Guard—and death to all who 
would infringe our privileges!” 

“Take reason with you, gentlemen cavaliers,” said the 
provost-marshal; “consider my commission.” 

“We will have no reason at your hand,” said Cunning¬ 
ham; “our own officers shall do us reason. We will be 




106 


Quextix Durward 


judged by the King’s grace, or by our own captain, now th 
the Lord High Constable is not in presence.” 

“And we will be hanged by none,” said Lindesay, “b 
Sandie Wilson, the auld marshals-man of our ain body.” ' 

“It would be a positive cheating of Sandie, who is | 
honest a man as ever tied noose upon hemp, did we give w, 
to any other proceeding,” said the Balafre. “Were I to 
hanged myself, no other should tie tippet about my craig.”’ 

“But hear ye,” said the provost-marshal, “this your 
fellow belongs not to you, and cannot share wLat you cs 
your privileges.” 

“What we call our privileges all shall admit to be such 
said Cunningham. 

“We wm' 11 not hear them questioned!” was the univers 
cry of the arch.ers. 

“Ye are mad, my masters,” said Tristan I’Hermite. “N 
one disputes your privileges; but this vouth is not one ( 

)OU.” 

“He is my nephew,” said the Balafre, with a triumphar 
air. 


“But no Archer of the Guard, I think,” retorted Trist^ 
I’Hermite. 

The archers looked on each other in some uncertaintv. 

“Stand to it yet, comrade,” whispered Cunningham i 
Balafre. “Say he is engaged with us.” 

St. Martin! you say well, fair countryman,” answere 
Lesly; and, raising his voice, swore that he had that dz 
enrolled his kinsman as one of his own retinue. 

This declaration was a decisive argument. 

“It is well, gentlemen,” said the Provost Tristan, wl 
was aware of the King’s nervous apprehension of disaffectio 
creeping in among his Guards. “You know, as you say, yoi 
privileges, and it is not my duty to have brawls with tl 
King’s Guards, if it is to be avoided. But I will report th 
matter for the King’s own decision; and I would have yo 

^Craig. (Scotch). Neck. ^ 





Quentin Durward 


107 


be aware that, in doing so, I act more mildly than perhaps 
my duty warrants me.” 

So saying he put his troop into motion, while the archers, 
remaining on the spot, held a hasty consultation what was 
next to he done. 

“We must report the matter to Lord Crawford, our 
captain, in the first place, and have the young fellow’s name 
put on the roll.” 

“But, gentlemen, and my worthy friends and preservers,” 
,said Quentin, with some hesitation, “I have not yet deter¬ 
mined whether to take service with you or no.” 

“Then settle in your own mind,” said his uncle, “whether 
4ou choose to do so or be hanged; for I promise you that, 
nephew of mine as you are,^ I see no other chance of your 
’scaping the gallows.” 

This was an unanswerable argument, and reduced Quen¬ 
tin at once to acquiesce in what he might have otherwise 
considered as no very agreeable proposal; but the recent 
escape from the halter, which had been actually around his 
neck, would probably have reconciled him to a worse alter¬ 
native than was proposed. 

“He must go home with us to our caserne/'^ said Cun¬ 
ningham; “there is no safety for him out of our bounds, 
whilst these man-hunters are prowling about.” 

J “May I not then abide for this night at the hostelry where 
I breakfasted, fair uncle?” said the youth, thinking, perhaps, 
like many a new recruit, that even a single night of freedom 
was something gained. 

“Yes, iair nephew,” answered his uncle, ironically, “that 
we may have the pleasure of fishing you out of some canal or 
moat, or perhaps out of a loop of the Loire, knit up in a sack, 
for the greater convenience of swimming, for that is like to 
be the end on’t. The provost-marshal smiled on us when we 
parted,” continued he, addressing Cunningham, “and that 
is a sign his thoughts were dangerous.” 


^Caserne. (German). Barracks. 


108 


Quentin Durward 

“I care not for his danger,” said Cunningham; “such 
game as we are beyond his bird-bolts. But I would have 
thee tell the whole to the Devil’s Oliver,, w^ho is always a| 
good friend to the Scottish Guard, and will see Father Louis 
before the provost can, for he is to shave him to-morrow.” 

“But hark you,” said Balafre, “it is ill going to Oliver 
empty-handed, and I am as bare as the birch in December.” 

“So are we all,” said Cunningham; “Oliver must noti 
scruple to take our Scottish words for once. We will make 
up something handsome among us against the next pay-day; 
and if he expects to share, let me tell you, the pay-day will 
come about all the sooner.” 

“And now for the chateau,” said Balafre; “and my 
nephew shall tell us by the w^ay.how he brought the provost- 
marshal on his shoulders, that w^e may know how to frame 
our report both to Crawford and Oliver,” \ 






CHAPTER VII. 




THE ENROLMENT. 

1 

Justice of Peace. Here, hand me down the statute— 
read the articles— 

Swear, kiss the book—subscribe, and be a hero; 

Drawing a portion from the public stock 
■ For deeds of valour to be done hereafter— 

I Sixpence per day, subsistence and arrears. 

The Recruiting Officer. 

An attendant upon the archers having been dismounted, 
Quentin Durward -was accommodated with his horse, and, in 
company of his martial countrymen, rode at a round pace 
towards the Castle of Plessis, about to become, although on 
his own part involuntarily, an inhabitant of that gloomy for¬ 
tress, the outside of which had,, that morning, struck him with 
^o much surprise. 

In the meanwhile, in answer to his uncle’s repeated inter¬ 
rogations, he gave him an exact account of the accident 
which had that morning brought him into so much danger. 
Although he himself saw nothing in his narrative save what 
(vvas affecting, he found it was received with much laughter 
by his escort. 

“And yet it is no good jest either,” said his uncle, “for 
what, in the devil’s name, could lead the senseless boy to 
meddle with the body of a cursed misbelieving Jewish Moor¬ 
ish pagan?” 

“Had he quarrelled with the marshals-men about a pretty 
wench, as Michael of Moffat did, there had been more sense 
in it,” said Cunningham. 

“But I think it touches our honour, that Tristan and his 
people pretend to confound our Scottish bonnets with these 


109 




no 


Quextix Durward 




pilfering vagabonds’ tocques and turhands, as they call them,’ 
said Lindesay. “If they have not eyes to see the difference 
they must be taught'by rule of hand. But it’s my belief 
Tristan but pretends to mistake, that he may snap up th( 
kindly Scots that come over jto see their kinsfolks.” 

“Alay I ask, kinsman,” said Quentin, “what sort of peo| 
pie these are of whom you speak?” 

“In troth you may ask,” said his uncle, “but I know not 
fair nephew, who is able to answer you. Not I, I am surci 
although I know, it may be, as much as other people; bul: 
they have appeared in this land within a 3ear or two, just as s 
flight of locusts might do.” 

“Ay,” said Lindesay, “and Jacques Bonhomme—that is 
our name for the peasant, young man—you will learn oui 
way of talk in time—honest Jacques, I say, cares little what 
wind either brings them or tlie locusts, so he but knows any! 
gale that would carry them away again.” ' 

“Do they do so much evil?” asked the young man. - 

“Evil! why, boy, they are heathens, or Jews, or Mahom-j 
medans at the least, and neither worship Our Lady nor the 
saints (crossing himself), and steal what they can lay hands 
on, and sing, and tell fortunes,” added Cunningham. 

And they sa}^ there are some goodlj’ wenches amongst 
these women, said Guthrie: “but Cunningham knows that 
best.” 

“How, brother!” said Cunningham; “I trust ye mean me 
no reproach ?” i 

“I am sure I said yt none,” answered Guthrie. i 

“I will be judged by the company,” said Cunningham. 
“Ye said as much as that I, a Scottish gentleman, and living 
within pale of holy church, had a fair friend among these ofLi 
scourings of heathenesse.” | 

“Naj'—nay,” said Balafre, “he did but jest. We will* 
have no quarrels among comrades.” 

“We must have no such jesting then,” said Cunningham, 
murmuring as if he had been speaking to his own beard. 








Quentin Durward m 

“Be there such vagabonds in other lands than France?” 
said Lindesay. 

“Ay, in good sooth, are there: tribes of them have 
appeared in Germany, and in Spain, and in England,” 
answered Balafre. 

“By the blessing of good St. Andrew, Scotland is free of 
them yet.” 

“Scotland,” said Cunningham, “is too cold a country for 
locusts, and too poor a country for thieves.” 

“Or perhaps John Highlander will suffer no thieves to 
thrive there but his own,” said Guthrie. 

“I let you all know,” said Balafre, “that I come from the 
braes of Angus, and have gentle Highland kin in Glen Isla, 
and I will not have the Highlanders slandered.” 

“You will not deny that they are cattle-lifters?” said 
Guthrie. 

“To drive a spreagh^ or so is no thiever>s” said Balafre, 
“and that I will maintain when and how you dare.” 

“For shame, comrade,” said Cunningham, “who quarrels 
now? The young man should not see such mad miscon¬ 
struction. Come, here we are at the chateau. I will bestow 
a runlet ^ of wine to have a rouse in friendship, and drink to 
Scotland, Highland and Lowland both, if you will meet me 
at dinner at my quarters.” 

“Agreed—agreed,” said Balafre; “and I will bestow 
another, to wash away unkindness, and to drink a health to 
my nephew on his first entrance to our corps.” 

At their approach, the wicket was opened and the draw¬ 
bridge fell. One by one they entered; but when Quentin 
appeared, the sentinels crossed their pikes, and commanded 
him to stand, while bows were bent, and harquebusses^ 
aimed at him from the walls—a rigour of vigilance used 
notwithstanding that the young stranger came in company 

^Spreagh. (Scotch). A herd of cattle driven off in a raid. 

^Runlet. A barrel (of spirits) holding eighteen and a half gallons. 

3 fJarquebusses. Primitive firearms. 


112 Quentin Durward 

of a party of the garrison, nay, of the very body 'which 
furnished the sentinels w'ho were then upon duty. 

Le Balafre, who had remained by his nephew’s side on 
purpose, gave the necessary explanations, and, after some 
considerable hesitation and delay, the youth was conveyed 
under a strong guard to the Lord Crawford’s apartment. 

This Scottish nobleman was one of the last relics of the 
gallant band of Scottish lords and knights who had so long 
and so truly served Charles VI. in those bloody wars w’hich 
decided the independence of the French crown and the 
expulsion of the English. He had fought., when a boy, 
abreast with Douglas and with Buchan,^ had ridden beneath 
the banner of the Maid of Arc, and was perhaps one of the 
last of those associates of Scottish chivalry who had so 
willingly drawn their swords for the fleur-de-lys against their 
“auld enemies of England.” Changes which had taken place 
in the Scottish kingdom, and perhaps his having become 
habituated to French climate, and manners, had induced the 
old baron to resign all thoughts of returning to his native 
country, the rather that the high office which he held in the 
household of Louis, and his own frank and loyal character, 
had gained a considerable ascendency over the King, who, 
though in general no ready believer in human virtue or 
honour, trusted and confided in those of the Lord Crawford, 
and allowed him the greater influence, ^because he was never 
known to interfere excepting in matters which concerned 
his charge. 

Balafre and Cunningham followed Durward and the 
guard to the apartment of their officer, by whose dignified 
appearance, as well as with the respect paid to him by those 
proud soldiers, who seemed to respect no one else, the 3 'Oung 
man was niuch and strongly impressed. 

Lord Crawford w’as tall, and through advanced age had 
become gaunt and thin; yet retaining in his sinews the 

^With Douglas and with Buchan. Archibald, Earl of Douglas, served under 
French kings; he was created Duke of Touraine in 1423. John Stuart, Earl of 
Buchan, commanded the Scottish Auxiliaries in the reign of Charles VII. 


113 


Quentin Durward 

strength, at least, if not the elasticity, of youth, he was able 
to endure the weight of his armour during a march as well as 
the youngest man who rode in his band. He was hard- 
favoured, with a scarred and weather-beaten countenance, and 
an eye that had looked upon death as his playfellow in thirty 
pitched battles, but which nevertheless expressed a calm con¬ 
tempt of danger, rather than the ferocious courage of a merce¬ 
nary soldier. His tall erect figure w^as at present wrapped 
in a loose chamber-gown,‘ secured around him by his buff belt, 
in which was suspended his richly-hilted poniard. He had 
round his neck the collar and badge of the order of St. 
Michael. He sat upon a couch covered with deer’s hide, and 
with spectacles on his nose (then a recent invention) was 
labouring to read a huge manuscript, called the Rosier de la 
Guerre ^—a code of military and civil policy which Louis had 
compiled for the benefit of his son the Dauphin, and upon 
which he was desirous to have the opinion of the experienced 
Scottish warrior. 

Lord Crawford laid his book somewhat peevishly aside 
upon the entrance of these unexpected visitors, and demanded, 
in his broad national dialect, “What, in the foul fiend’s name, 
they lacked now?” 

Le Balafre, with more respect than perhaps he'would have 
shown to Louis himself, stated at full length the circumstances 
in w'hich his nephew was placed, and humbly requested his 
lordship’s protection. Lord Crawford listened very attentively. 
He could not but smile at the simplicity with which the youth 
had interfered in behalf of the hanged criminal, but he shook 
his head at the account which he received of the ruffle betwixt 
the Scottish Archers and the provost-marshal’s guard.“ 

“How often,” he said, “will you bring me such ill-winded 
pirns^ to ravel out? How often must I tell you, and especially 

iRosier de la Guerre. Rose tree of War. 

^The Scottish Archers and the provost-marshal's guard. See Note 7 at end of 
the novel. 

^Pirns. Bobbins of spinning- wheels; difficulties to adjust. Ill-winded, 
equivalent to ill-wound. ' 


114 


Quentin Durward 


both you, Ludovic Lesly, and you, Archie Cunningham, that 
the foreign soldier should bear himself modestly and decorously 
towards the people of the country, if you would not have the 
whole dogs of the town at your heels? However, if you must 
liave a bargain,^ I would rather it were with that loon of a pro¬ 
vost than any one else; and I blame you less for this onslaught 
than for other frays that you have made, Ludovic, for it was 
but natural and kindlike to help your 370ung kinsman. This 
simple bairn must come to no skaith” neither; so give me the 
roll of the company yonder down from the shelf, and we will 
even add his name to the troop, that he may enjoy the 
privileges.” 

“May it please your lordship,” said Durward- 

“Is the lad crazed!” exclaimed his uncle. ,“Would 3 ^ou 
speak to his lordship without a question asked?” 

“Patience, Ludovic,,” said Lord Crawford, “and let us 
hear what the bairn has to say.” 

“Only this, if it may please your lordship,” replied Quen¬ 
tin, “that I told my uncle formerly I had some doubts about 
entering this service. I have now to say that they are entirely 
removed, since I have seen the noble and experienced com¬ 
mander under whom I am to serve; for there is authority in 
your look.” 

“Weel said, my bairn,” said the old lord, not insensible to 
the compliment; “we have had some experience, had God sent 
us grace to improve by it, both in service and in command. 
There you stand Quentin, in our honourable corps of Scottish 
Body-Guards,, as esquire to your uncle, and serving under his 
lance. I trust you will do well, for you should be a right 
man-at-arms, if all be good that is upcome,^ and you are come 
of a gentle kindred. Ludovic, you will see that your kinsman 

‘ Bargain. A quarrel. 

\Skailh. Hurt, harm; compare scathless, unscathed. 

3// all be good, elc. That is. if your courage corresponds with your personal 
appearance.— ScoU. 



Quentin Durward ii5 

follow his exercise diligently, for we will have spears-breaking 
one of these days.” 

“By my hilts, and I am glad of it, my lord; this peace 
makes cowards of us all. I myself feel a sort of decay of 
spirit, closed up in this cursed dungeon of a castle.” 

“Well, a bird whistled in my ear,” continued Lord Craw¬ 
ford, “that the old banner will be soon dancing in the field 
again.” 

“I will drink a cup the deeper this evening to that very 
tune,” said BalafrL 

“Thou wilt drink to any tune,” said Lord Crawford; 
“and I fear me, Ludovic, you will drink a bitter browst^ of 
your own brewing one day.” 

Lesly, a little abashed, replied, “That it had not been his 
wont for many a day; but his lordship knew the use of the 
company to have a carouse to the health of a new comrade.” 

“True,” said the old leader, “I had forgot the occasion. I 
will send a few stoups of wine to assist your carouse; but let 
it be over by sunset. And, hark ye—let the soldiers for duty 
be carefully pricked off; and see that none of them be more or 
less partakers of your debauch.” 

“Your lordship shall be lawfully obeyed,” said Ludovic, 
“and your health duly remembered.” 

“Perhaps,” said Lord Crawford, “I may look in myself 
upon your mirth, just to see that all is carried decently.” 

“Your lordship shall be most dearly welcome,” said Ludo¬ 
vic; and the whole party retreated in high spirits to prepare 
for their military banquet, to which Lesly invited about a 
score of his comrades, who were pretty much in the habit of 
making their mess together. 

A soldier’s festival is generally a very Yxtempore affair, 
providing there is enough of meat and drink to be had; but 
on the present occasion Ludovic bustled about to procure some 
better wine than ordinary, observing, that the “old lord was 


^Browst. A drink. 


J16 


Quentin Durward 

the surest gear in their aught/ and that, while he preached 
sobriety to them, he himself, after drinking at the royal table 
as much wine as he could honestly come by, never omitted any 
creditable opportunity to fill up the evening over the wine-pot. 
So you must prepare, comrades,” he said, “to hear the old 
histories of the battles of Vernoil and Beauge.”" 

The Gothic apartment in which they generally met was, 
therefore, hastily put in the best order: their grooms were 
despatched to collect green rushes^ to spread upon the floor; 
and banners, under which the Scottish Guard had marched to 
battle, or which they had taken from the enemies’ ranks, were 
displayed, by way of tapestry, over the table, and around the 
walls of the chamber. 

The next point was to invest the young recruit as hastily 
as possible with the dress and appropriate arms of the Guard, 
that he might appear in every respect the sharer of its 
important privileges, in virtue of which, and by the support 
of his countrymen, he might freely brave the power and the 
displeasure of the provost-marshal, although the one was 
known to be as formidable as the other was unrelenting. 

The banquet was joyous in the highest degree; and the 
guests gave vent to the whole current of their national par¬ 
tiality on receiving into their ranks a recruit from their 
beloved fatherland. Old Scottish songs were sung, old tales 
of Scottish heroes told; the achievements of their fathers, and 
the scenes in which they were wrought, w^ere recalled to 
mind; and for a time the rich plains of Touraine seemed 
converted into the mountainous and sterile regions of 
Caledonia. 

When their enthusiasm was at high flood, and each was 
endeavouring to say something to enhance the dear remem- 

ir/jf surest gear in their aught. ‘‘In their aught” means in their possession; 
the entire phrase signifying that they might depend upon the ‘‘old lord” to follow 
his usual custom and join in the festival. 

'^Vernoil and Beauge. See Note 8.— Scottish Auxiliaries. 

^Green rushes, etc. It was the custom to spread rushes on the floor; carpets 
vere as yet unknown luxuries. 


Quentin Durward 117 

brance of Scotland, it received a new impulse from the arrival 
of Lord Crawford, who, as Le Balafre had well prophesied 
sat as It were on thorns at the royal board until an oppor¬ 
tunity occurred of making his escape to the revelry of his own 
countrymen. A chair of state had been reserved for him at the 
upper end of the table; for, according to the manners of the 
age, and the constitution of that body, although their leader 
and commander under the King and High Constable, the 
members of the corps, as we should now say, the privates, 
being all ranked as noble by birth, their captain sat with them 
at the same table without impropriety, and might mingle 
when he chose in their festivities, without derogation from his 
dignity as commander. 

At present, however. Lord Crawford declined occupying 
the seat prepared for him, and bidding them “hold themselves 
merry,” stood looking on the revel with a countenance which 
seemed greatly to enjoy it. 

“Let him alone,” whispered Cunningham to Lindesay, as 
the latter offered the wine to their noble captain—“let him 
alone—huwy no man’s cattle—let him take it of his own 
accord.” 

In fact, the old lord, who at first smiled,, shook his head, 
and placed the untasted wine-cup before him, began presently,' 
as if It were in absence of mind, to sip a little of the contents,' 
and, in doing so, fortunately recollected that it would be ill- 
luck did he not drink a draught to the health of the gallant 
lad who had joined them this day. The pledge was filled and 
answered, as may be well supposed, with many a joyous shout, 
when the old leader proceeded to acquaint them that he had 
possessed Master Oliver with an account of what had passed 
that day. “And as,” he said, “the scraper of chins hath no 
great love for the stretcher of throats, he has joined me in 
obtaining from the King an order commanding the provost to 
suspend all proceedings, under whatever pretence, against * 
Quentin Durward, and to respect, on all occasions, the 
privileges of the Scottish Guard.” 


118 


Quentin Durward 

Another shout broke forth, the cups were again filled till 
the wine sparkled on the brim, and there was an acclaim to 
the health of the noble Lord Crawford, the brave conservator 
of the privileges and rights of his countrymen. The good old 
lord could not but in courtesy do reason to this pledge also,, 
and gliding into the ready chair, as it were without reflecting 
what he was doing, he caused Quentin to come up beside him, 
and assailed him with many more questions concerning the 
state of Scotland, and the great families there, than he was 
well able to answer; while ever and anon, in the course of his 
queries, the good lord kissed the wine-cup by way of paren¬ 
thesis, remarking, that sociality became Scottish gentlemen, 
but that young men like Quentin ought to practise it cau¬ 
tiously, lest it might degenerate into excess; upon which 
occasion he uttered many excellent things, until his own 
tongue, although employed in the praises of temperance, began 
to articulate something thicker than usual. It was now that, 
while the military ardour of the company augmented with 
each flagon which they emptied, Cunningham called on them 
to drink the speedy hoisting of the Oriflamme\t\\t royal 
banner of France. 

“And a breeze of Burgundy to fan it!” echoed Lindesay. 

“With all the soul that is left in this worn body do I 
accept the pledge, bairns,” echoed Lord Crawford; “and as 
old as I am, I trust I may see it flutter yet. Hark ye, my 
mates (for wine had made him something communicative), 
ye are all true servants to the French crown, and wherefore 
should ye not know there is an envoy come from Duke Charles 
of Burgundy, with a message of an angry favour.” 

“I saw the Count of Crevecocur’s equipage, horses and 
retinue,” said another of the guests, “down at the inn yonder, 
at the Mulberry Grove. They say the King will not admit 
•him into the castle.” 

^The Orifiamme. The banner of St. D@nis, supposed to have been a plain red 
flag. It was preserved in the Abbey of St. D^nis, near Paris, and in war was car¬ 
ried before the King of France as a consecrated banner. 


119 


Quentin Durward 

“Now., Heaven send him an ungracious answer!” said 
Guthrie; “but what is it he complains of?” 

“A world of grievances upon the frontier,” said Lord 
Crawford; “and latterly, that the King hath received under 
his protection a lady of his land, a young countess, who hath 
fled from Dijon because, being a ward of the Duke, he would 
have her marry his favourite, Campo-basso.” ^ 

“And hath she actually come hither alone, my lord?” said 
Lindesay. 

“Nay, not altogether alone, but with.the old countess, her 
kinswoman, who hath yielded to her cousin’s wishes in this 
matter.” 

“And will the King,” said Cunningham, “he being the 
Duke’s feudal sovereign, interfere between the Duke and his 
ward, over whom Charles hath the same right which, were he 
himself dead, the King would have over the heiress of 
Burgundy?” 

“The King will be ruled, as he is wont, by rules of policy; 
and you know,” continued Crawford, “that he hath not pub¬ 
licly received these ladles, nor placed them under the protection 
of his daughters, the Lady of Beaujeau or the Princess Joan, 
so, doubtless, he will be guided by circumstances. He is our 
master; but it is no treason to say, he will chase with the hounds 
and run with the hare with any prince in Christendom.” 

“But the Duke of Burgundy understands no such doub¬ 
ling,” said Cunningham. 

“No,” answered the old lord; “and, therefore, it is likely 
to make work between them.” 

“Well—St. Andrew further the fray!” said Le Balafre. 
“I liad it foretold me ten, ay, twenty years since,, that I was to 
make the fortune of my house by marriage. Who knows what 
may happen, if once we come to fight for honour and ladies’ 
love, as they do in the old romaunts?” 

^Campo-basso, A soldier of fortune and commander of Italian mercenaries; 
he was in the service of Burgundy, but turned traitor to the Duke at the siege of 
Nancy, 1477. 


120 


Quentin Durward 

"'Thou name ladies’ love, with such a trench in thy vis¬ 
age !” said Guthrie. 

“As well not love at all, as love a Bohemian woman of 
heathenesse,,”^ retorted Le Balafre. 

“Hold there, comrades,” said Lord Crawford: “no tilting 
with sharp weapons, no jesting with keen scoffs—friends all. 
And for the lady, she is too wealthy to fall to a poor Scottish 
lord, or I would put in my own claim, fourscore years and all, 
or not very far from it. But here is her health, nevertheless, 
for they say she is a lamp of beauty.” 

“I think I saw her,” said another soldier, “when I was 
upon guard this morning at the inner barrier; but she was 
more like a dark lantern than a lamp, for she and another 
were brought into the chateau in close litters.” 

“Shame!—shame! Arnot!” said Lord Crawford; “a 
soldier on duty should say nojught of what he sees. Besides/’ 
he added after a pause, his owm curiosity prevailing over the 
show of discipline which he had thought it necessary to exert, 
“why should these litters contain this very same Countess 
Isabelle de Croye ?” 

“Nay, my lord,” replied Arnot, “I know nothing of it 
save this, that my coutelier was airing my horses in the road 
to the village and fell in with Doguin the muleteer who 
brought back the litters to the inn, for they belong to the 
fellow of the Mulberry Grove yonder—he of the Fleur-de- 
L5 's, I mean—and so Doguin asked Saunders Steed to take a 
CUT of wine, as they were acquainted, which he was no doubt 
willing enough to do-” 

“No doubt—no doubt,” said the old lord; “it is a thing I 
wish were corrected among you, gentlemen; but all your 
grooms and couteliers, and jackmen,“ as we should call them 
in Scotland, are but too ready to take a cup of wine with any 
one. It is a thing perilous in war, and must be amended. But 
Andrew Arnot, this is a long tale of yours, and we will cut it 

i Heathenesse. Heathendom; compare Christendom. 

^Jackmen. Retainers; for couteliers. see note, page 75. 



121 


Quentin Durward 

with a drink, as the Highlander says,, Skeoch dock nan skial ^— 
and that’s good Gaelic. Here is to the Countess Isabelle of 
Croye, and a better husband to her than Campo-basso, who is 
a base Italian cullion! And, now Andrew Arnot, what said 
the muleteer to this yeoman of thine?” 

“Why, he told him in secrecy, if it please, your lordship,” 
continued Arnot, “that these two ladies whom he had pres¬ 
ently before convoyed up to the castle in the close litters were 
great ladies, who had been living in secret at his master’s 
house for some days, and that the King had visited them more 
than once very privately, and had done them great honour; 
and that they had fled up to the castle, as he believed, for fear 
of the Count de Crevecceur, the Duke of Burgundy’s ambassa¬ 
dor, whose approach was just announced by an advanced 
courier.” 

“Ay, Andrew, come you there to me?” said Guthrie; 
“then I will be sworn it was the countess whose voice I heard 
singing to the lute,, as I came even now through the inner 
court. The sound came from the bay-windows of the 
Dauphin’s Tower; and such melody was there as no one ever 
heard before in the Castle of Plessis of the Park. By my 
faith, I thought it was the music of the fairy Melusina’s^ 
making. There I stood, though I knew your board was cov¬ 
ered and that you were all impatient—there I stood, like-” 

“Like an ass, Johnny Guthrie,” said his commander; “thy 
long nose smelling the dinner, thy long ears hearing the music, 
and thy short discretion not enabling thee to decide which of 
them thou didst prefer. Hark! is not that the cathedral bell 
tolling to vespers? Sure it cannot be that time yet? The mad 
old sexton has toll’d evensong an hour too soon.” 

“In faith, the bell rings but too justly the hour,” said 
Cunningham; “yonder the sun is sinking on the west side of 
the fair plain.” 

^Skeoch dock nan skml. "Cut a tale with a drink," an expression used when a 
man preaches over his liquor, as bans vivants say in England.— Scott. 

melusina. A character in old French Toiklore. Every Saturday she was 
transformed int<^ a serpent from the waist downward. 


122 


Quentin Durward 

“Ay,” said the Lord Crawford, “is it even so? Well, lads, 
we must live within compass. Fair and soft goes far—slow 
fire makes sweet malt—to be merry and wise is a sound 
proverb. One other rouse to the weal of old Scotland, and 
then each man to his duty.” 

The parting cup was emptied, and the guests dismissed; 
the stately old baron taking the BalafrCs arm, under pretence 
of giving him some instructions concerning his nephew, but, 
perhaps, in reality, lest his own lofty pace should seem in the 
public eye less steady than became his rank and high command. 
A serious countenance did he bear as he passed through the 
two courts which separated his lodging from the festal cham¬ 
ber, and solemn as the gravity of a hogshead was the farewell 
caution with which he prayed Ludovic to attend his nephew’s 
motions, especially in the matters of wenches and wine-cups. 

Meanwhile, not a word that was spoken concerning the 
beautiful Countess Isabelle had escaped the j’oung Durward, 
who, conducted into a small cabin, which he was to share with 
his uncle’s page, made his new and lowly abode the scene of 
much high musing. The reader will easily imagine that the 
young soldier should build a fine romance on such a founda¬ 
tion as the supposed, or rather the assumed identification of 
the maiden of the turret, to whose lay he had listened with so 
much interest, and the fair cup-bearer of Maitre Pierre, with 
a fugitive countess of rank and wealth. Hying from the pursuit 
of a hated lover, the favourite of an oppressive guardian, who 
abused his feudal power. There was an interlude in Quentin’s 
vision concerning Maitre Pierre, who seemed to exercise such 
authority even over the formidable officer from whose hands 
he had that day, with much difficulty, made his escape. At 
length the youth’s reveries, which liad been respected by little 
Will Harper, the companion of his cell, were broken in upon 
by the return of his uncle, who commanded Quentin to bed, 
that he might arise betimes in the morning, and attend him to 
his Majesty’s ante-chamber, to which he was called by his 
hour of duty, along with five of his comrades. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


THE ENVOY 


Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; 

For ere thou canst report I will be there, 

The thunder of my cannon shall be heard. 

So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath. 

King John. 

Had sloth been a temptation by which Durward was 
easily beset, the noise with which the caserne of the guards 
resounded after the first toll of primes ^ had certainly banished 
the siren from his couch; but the discipline of his father’s, 
tower and of the convent of Aberbrothock had taught him to 
start with the dawn; and he did on" his clothes gaily, amid 
the sounding of bugles and the clash of armour, which 
announced the change of the vigilant guards—som:e of whom 
were returning to barracks after their nightly duty, whilst 
some were marching out to that of the morning; and others, 
again, amongst whom was his uncle, were arming for imme¬ 
diate attendance upon the person of Louis. Quentin Durward 
soon put on with the feelings of so 3'Oung a man on such an 
occasion, the splendid dress and arms appertaining to his new 
situation; and his uncle, who looked with great accuracy and 
interest to see that he was completely fitted out in every 
respect, did not conceal his satisfaction at the improvement 
which had been thus made in his nephew’s appearance. “If 
thou dost prove as faithful and bold as thou art well-favoured, 
I shall have in thee one of the handsomest and best esquires 
in the Guard, which cannot but be an honour to thy mother’s 

^Primes. From Latin primus, first; the first canonical hour for reciting an 
of ice from the breviary; about daybreak. 

^Did on. The phrase “to do on” gave us the contraction “to don”; while 
tilt contrary phrase “to do off” was contracted into “to doff.” 


124 


Quentin Durward ' 

family. Follow me to the presence-chamber; and see thou 
keep close at my shoulder.” 

So saying, he took up a partizan,^ large, weighty, and 
beautifully inlaid and ornamented, and directing his neplfew 
to assume a lighter weapon of a similar description, they pro¬ 
ceeded to the inner court of the palace, where their comrades, 
who were to form the guard of the interior apartments, were 
already drawn up and under arms—the squires each standing 
behind their masters, to whom they thus formed a second rank. 
Here were also in attendance many yeomen-prickers,^ with 
gallant horses and noble dogs, on which Quentin looked with 
such inquisitive delight that his uncle was obliged more than 
once to remind him that the animals were not there for his 
private amusement, but for the King’s who had a strong 
passion for the chase, one of the few inclinations which he 
indulged, even when coming in competition with his course 
of policy; being so strict a protector of the game in the royal 
forests, that it was currently said you might kill a man with 
greater impunity than a stag. 

On a signal given, the guards were put into motion by the 
command of Le Balafre, who acted as officer upon the occa¬ 
sion ; and, after some minutiie of word and signal, which all 
served to show the extreme and punctilious jealousy with 
which their duty was performed, they marched into the hall 
of audience, where the King was immediately expected. 

New as Quentin was to scenes of splendour, the effect of 
that which was now before him rather disappointed the expec¬ 
tations which he had formed of the brilliancy of a court. 
There were household officers, indeed, richly attired, there 
were guards gallantly armed, and there were domestics of 
various degrees; but he saw none of the.ancient counsellors 
of the kingdom, none of the high officers of the crown; heard 
none of the names which in those days sounded an alarum to 


^Partizan. A weapon like a halberd. 

eomen-pri-kers. Servants of the hunt in ehartre of the hounds. 


Quentin Durward 


125 


chivalry; saw none either of those generals or leaders who, 
possessed of the full prime of manhood, were the strength of 
France, or of the more youthful and fiery nobles, those early 
aspirants after honour, who were her pride. The jealous 
habits, the reserved manners, the deep and artful policy of the 
King, had estranged this splendid circle from the throne, and 
they were only called around it upon certain stated and formal 
occasions, when they went reluctantly, and returned joyfully, 
as the animals in the fable are supposed to have approached 
and left the den of the lion. 

The very few persons who seem.ed to be there in the 
character of counsellors were mean looking men, whose 
countenances sometimes expressed sagacity, but whose manners 
showed they were called into a sphere for which their previous 
education and habits had qualified them but indifferently. 
One or two persons, however, did appear to Durward to 
possess a more noble mien, and the strictness of the present 
duty was not such as to prevent his uncle communicating the 
names of those whom he thus distinguished. 

With the Lord Crawford, who was in attendance, dressed 
in the rich habit of his office, and holding a leading staff of 
silver in his hand, Quentin, as well as the reader, was already 
acquainted. Among others who seemed of quality, the most 
remarkable was the Count de Dunois, the son of that cele¬ 
brated Dunois, known by the name of the Bastard of Orleans, 
who, fighting under the banner of Jeanne d’Arc, acted such 
a distinguished part in liberating France from the English 
yoke. His son well supported the high renown which had 
descended to him from such an honoured source; and,, not¬ 
withstanding his connexion with the royal family, and his 
hereditary popularity both with the nobles and the people, 
Dunois had, upon all occasions, manifested such an open, 
frank loyalty of character that he seemed to have escaped all 
suspicion, even on the part of the jealous Louis, who loved to 
see him near his person, and sometimes even called him to his 


126 


Quentin Durward 

councils. Although accounted complete in all the exercises of 
chivalry, and possessed of much of the character of what was 
then termed a perfect knight, the person of the count was far 
from being a model of romantic beauty. He- was under the 
common size, though very strongly built, and his legs rather 
curved outwards into that make which is more convenient for 
horseback than elegant in a pedestrian. His shoulders were 
broad, his'hair black, his complexion swarthy, his arms remark¬ 
ably long and nervous. The features of his countenance were 
irregular, even to ugliness; yet, after all, there was an air of 
conscious worth and nobility about the Count de Dunois 
which stamped, at the first glance, the character of the high¬ 
born nobleman and the undaunted soldier. His mien was 
bold and upright, his step free and manly, and the harshness 
of his countenance was dignified by a glance like an eagle and 
a frown like a lion. His dress was a hunting-suit, rather 
sumptuous than gay, and he acted on most occasions as Grand 
Huntsman, though we are not inclined to believe that he 
actually held the office. 

Upon the arm of his relation Dunois, walking with a 
step so slow and melancholy that he seemed to rest on his kins¬ 
man and supporter,, came Louis, Duke of Orleans, the first 
prince of the blood royal (afterwards King by the name of 
Louis XIL), and to whom the guards and attendants ren¬ 
dered their homage as such. The jealously-watched object of 
Louis’s suspicions, this prince, who, failing the King’s off¬ 
spring, was heir to the kingdom, was not suffered to absent 
himself from court, and, while residing there, was alike denied 
employment and countenance. The dejection which his 
degraded and almost captive state naturally impressed on the 
deportment of this unfortunate prince was at this moment 
greatly increased by his consciousness that the King medi¬ 
tated, with respect to him., one of the most cruel and unjust 
actions which a tyrant could commit, by compelling him to 
give his hand to the Princess Joan of France, the younger 
daughter of Louis, to whom he had been contracted in infancy. 


127 


QuHXTIX DuR\^ ARD 

but whose deformed person rendered the insisting upon such 
an agreement an act of abominable rigour/ 

1 he. exterior of this unhapp}' prince was in no respect dis¬ 
tinguished by personal advantages; and in mind he was of a 
gentle, mild, and beneficent disposition, qualities which were 
visible even through the veil of extreme dejection with which 
his natural character was at present obscured. Quentin 
observed that the duke studiously avoided even looking at the 
Royal Guards, and when he returned their salute, that he 
kept his eyes bent on the ground, as if he feared the King’s 
- jealousy might have construed that gesture of ordinary 
courtesy as arising from the purpose of establishing a separate 
and personal interest among them. 

V^ery different was the conduct of the proud cardinal and 
prelate, John of Balue, the favourite minister of Louis for the 
time, whose rise and character bore as close a resemblance to 
that of Wolsey as the difference betwixt the crafty and politic 
Louis and the headlong and rash Henry VHII. of England 
would permit. The former had raised his minister from the 
lowest rank to the dignity, or at least to the emoluments, of ‘ 
Grand Almoner of France," loaded him with benefices, and 
obtained for him the hat of a cardinal; and although he was 
too cautious to repose in the ambitious Balue the unbounded 
power and trust whiclV Henry placed in Wolsey, 3^et he was 
more influenced by him than by any other of his avowed 
Counsellors. The cardinal, accordingly, had not escaped the 
error incidental to those who are suddenly raised to power 
from an obscure situation, for he entertained a strong per¬ 
suasion, dazzled doubtless by the suddenness of his elevation, 
that his capacity was equal to intermeddling with affairs of 
every kind, even those most foreign to his profession and 
studies. Tall and ungainly in his person, he affected gallantry 
and admiration of the fair sex, although his manners rendered 

act of abominable rigour. See Xote 10 .—Louis and his Daughter. 

Grand Almoner of France. An official of high rank, usually a cardinal, who 
nad in cliarge the charities of the king. 


128 


Quentin Durward j 

his pretensions absurd, and his profession marked them as | 
indecorous. Some male or female flatterer had, in evil hour, 
possessed him with the idea that there was much beauty of 
contour in a pair of huge, substantial legs, which he had 
derived from his father, a carman of Limoges, or, according 
to other authorities, a miller of Verdun; and wdth this idea 
he had become so infatuated, that he always had his cardinal’s 
robes a little looped up on one side, that the sturdy propor¬ 
tion of his limbs might not escape observation. As he swept 
through the stately apartment in his crimson dress and rich 
cope, he stopped repeatedly to look at the arms and appoint¬ 
ments of the cavaliers on guard, asked them several questions 
in an authoritative tone, and took upon him to censure some 
of them for what he termed irregularities of discipline, in | 
language to which these experienced soldiers dared no reply, 
although it was plain they listened to it with impatience and 
with contempt. 

“Is the King aware,” said Dunois to the cardinal, “that 
the Burgundian envoy is peremptory in demanfling an 
audience?” 

“He is,” answered the cardinal; “and here, as I think, j 
comes that all-sufficient Oliver Dain ^ to let us know the royal 
pleasure.” 

As he spoke, a remarkable person, who then divided the 
favour of Louis with the proud cardinal himself, entered from | 
the inner apartment, but without any of that important and I 
consequential demeanour which marked the full-blown dignity 
of the churchman. On the contrary, this was a little, pale, 
meagre man, whose black silk jerkin and hose, without either 
coat, cloak, or cassock, formed a dress ill qualified to set off to 
advantage a very ordinary person. He carried a silver basin 
in his hand, and a napkin flung over his arm indicated his 
menial capacity. His visage was penetrating and quick, 
although he endeavoured to banish such expression from his 

^Oliver Dain. Oliver's name, or nickname, was Le Diable, which was bestowed 
on him by public hatred, in exchange for Le Daim, or Le Dain. He was originally 
the king’s barber, but afterwards a favorite counsellor.— Scott. 






129 


Quentin Durward 

features, by keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, while, with 
the stealthy and quiet pace of a cat, he seemed modestly rather 
to glide than to walk through the apartment. But, though 
modesty may easily obscure worth, it cannot hide court favour; 
and all attempts to steal unperceived through the presence- 
chamber were vain on the part of one known to have such 
possession of the King’s ear as had been attained by his cele¬ 
brated barber and groom of the chamber, Oliver le Dain, 
called sometimes Oliver le Mauvais, and sometimes Oliver le 
i Diable^—epithets derived from the unscrupulous cunning with 
which he assisted in the execution of the schemes of his master’s 
tortuous policy. At present he spoke earnestly for a few 
moments with the Count de Dunois, who instantly left the 
chamber, while the tonsor glided quietly back towards the royal 
apartment whence he had issued, every one giving place to 
him; which civility he only acknowledged by the most humble 
inclination of the 'body, excepting in a very few instances, 
where he made one or two persons the subject of envy to all 
the other courtiers by whispering a single word in their ear; 
and at the same time muttering something of the duties of his 
place, he escaped from their replies, as well as from the eager 
solicitations of those who washed to attract his notice. Ludo- 
vic Lesly had the good fortune to be one of the individuals 
who, on the present occasion, was favoured by Oliver wdth a 
single wmrd, to assure him that his matter w’as fortunately 
terminated. 

I Presently afterw^ards, he had another proof of the same 
agreeable tidings; for Quentin’s old acquaintance, Tristan 
, I’Hermite, the provost-marshal of the royal household, entered 
( the apartment, and came straight to the place wdiere Le 
! Balafre was posted. This formidable officer’s uniform, which 
^ was very rich, had only the effect of making his sinister 
r countenance and bad mien more strikingly remarkable, and 
the tone which he meant for conciliatory was like nothing so 
much as the growling of a bear. The import of his words, 

^Oliver le Diable. Oliver the Devil; le Mauvais means the wicked. 






130 


Qui-xtix Uurward I 

‘ij 

however, was more amicable than the voice in which they were ' 
pronounced. He regretted the mistake which had fallen 
between them on the preceding day, and observed it was owing 
to the Sieur Le Balafre’s nephew not wearing the uniform of 
his corps, or announcing himself as belonging to it, which had 
led him into the error for which he now asked forgiveness. 

Ludovic Lesly made the necessary reply, and as soon as 
Tristan had turned away, observed to his nephew that they 
had now the distinction of having a mortal enemy from hence- | 
forward in the person of this dreaded officer. “But we are i 
above his volee^ a soldier,” said he, “who does his duty may 
laugh at the provost-marshal.” 

Quentin could not help being of his uncle’s opinion, for, as 
'I'ristan parted from them, it was with the look of angry ' 
defiance which the bear casts upon the hunter whose spear has 
wounded him. Indeed, even when less strongly moved, the 
sullen e^'e of this official expressed a malevolence of purpose 
which made men shudder to meet his glance; and the thrill 
of the young Scot was the deeper and more abhorrent, that he 
seemed to himself still to feel on his shoulders the grasp of the 
two death-doing functionaries of this fatal officer. 

Meanwhile, Oliver, after he had prowled around the room 
in the stealthy manner which we have endeavoured to 
describe—all, even the highest officers, making way for him, 
and loading him with their ceremonious attentions, which 
his modesty seemed desirous to avoid—again entered the inner 
apartment, the doors of which were presently thrown open, 
and King Louis entered the presence-chamber. 

Quentin, like all others, turned his eyes upon him; and 
started so suddenly that he almost dropt his weapon, when he 
recognized in the King of France that silk-merchant, Maitre 
Pierre, who had been the companion of his morning walk. 
Singular suspicions respecting the real rank of this person had 
at different times crossed his thoughts; but this, the proved 
reality, was wilder than his wildest conjecture. 

1 Voice. Flight, 




131 


Quentin Durward 

The stern look of his uncle, offended at this breach of the 
decorum of his office, recalled him to himself; but not a little 
was he astonished when the King, whose quick eye had at once 
discovered him, w^alked straight to the place where he w^as 
posted, wdthout taking notice of any one else. “So,” he said, 
“3'Oung man, I am told you have been brawding on j-our first 
arrival in Touraine; but I pardon you, as it was chiefly the 
|[ fault of a foolish old merchant, w^ho thought your Caledonian 
i: blood required to be heated in the morning with vin de 
Beaulne. If I can find him, I will make him an example to 
those wKo debauch my Guards. Balafre,” he added, speaking 
to Lesiy, “your kinsman is a fair youth, though a fiery. Wc 
love to cherish such spirits, and mean to make more than ever 
we did of the brave men wTo are around us. Let the year, 
day, hour, and minute of your nephew’s birth be written dowm 
and given to Oliver Dain.” 

Le Balafre bowled to the ground and reassumed his erect 
military position, as one who would show by his demeanour 
his promptitude to act in the King’s quarrel or defence. 
Quentin, in the meantime, recovered from his first surprise, 
I studied the King’s appearance more attentively, and was sur¬ 
prised to find how differently he now construed his deportment 
and features than he had done at their first interview. 

These w^ere not much changed in exterior, for Louis, 
alw^ays a scorner of outw^ard show,, wore, on the present occa- 
, sion, an old dark-blue hunting-dress, not much better than the 
I plain burgher-suit of the preceding day, and garnished with a 
- huge rosary of ebony, w^hich had been sent to him by no less a 
|l personage than the Grand Seignior,^ with an attestation that 
* it had been used by a Coptic" hermit on Mount Lebanon, a 
personage of profound sanctity. And instead of his cap with 
I a single image, he now^ wxjre a liat the band of which was 
garnished with at least a dozen of little paltry figures of 
-saints stamped in lead. But those e\'es which, according to 

[ ^Gratid Seignior. The Sultan of the Ottoman Turks. ^ 

r ^Coptic. The Copts are descendants of the ancient Egyptians. 







132 


Quextix Durward 

Quentin’s former impression, only twinkled with the love of j 
^ain had, now that they were known to be the property of an| 
able and powerful monarch, a piercing and majestic glance;! 
and those wrinkles on the brow, which he had supposed were 
formed during a long series of petty schemes of commerce, 
seemed now the furrows which sagacity had worn while toiling 
in meditation upon the fate of nations. 

Presently after the King’s appearance, the Princesses of 
France, with the ladies of their suite, entered the apartment. 
With the eldest, afterwards married to Peter of Bourbon, and 
known in French history by the name of the Lady of Beau- 
jeau, our story has but little to do. She was tall, and rather 
handsome, possessed eloquence, talent, and much of her father’s 
sagacity, who reposed great confidence in her, and loved her as^ 
well perhaps as he loved any one. 

The younger sister, the unfortunate Joan, the destined 
bride of the Duke of Orleans, advanced timidly by the side of 
her sister, conscious of a total want of those external qualities 
which women are most desirous of possessing, or being thought 
to possess. She was pale, thin, and sickly in her complexion ; 
her shape visibly bent to one side, and her gait so unequal that I 
she might be called lame. A fine set of teeth, and eyes which] 
were expressive of melancholy, softness, and resignation, with] 
a quantity of light brown locks, were the only redeeming! 
points which flattery Itself could have dared to number to 
counteract the general homeliness of her face and figure. To 
complete the picture, it was easy to remark, from the Princess’s 
negligence in dress and the timidity of her manner, that she 
had an unusual and distressing consciousness of her own plain¬ 
ness of appearance, and did not dare to make any of those 
attempts to mend by manners or by art what nature had left 
amiss, or in any other way to exert a power of pleasing. The 
King, who loved her not, stepped hastily to her as she entered. 
“How now!” he said, “our world-contemning daughter. Are 
you robed for a hunting-party or for the convent this morn¬ 
ing? Speak—answer.” 




133 


Quentin Durward 

“For which your Highness pleases, sire,” said the Princess, 
scarce raising her voice above her breath. 

“Ay, doubtless you would persuade me it is 5Aour desire to 
quit the court, Joan, and renounce the world and its vanities. 
Ha! maiden,, wouldst you have it thought that we, the first- 
j born of holy church, would refuse our daughter to Heaven ? 
Our Lady and St. Martin forbid we should refuse the offer- 
ing, were it worthy of the altar, or were thy vocation in truth 
thitherward I” 

So saying, the King crossed himself devoutly, looking, 
in the meantime, as appeared to Quentin, very like a cunning 
vassal, who was depreciating the merit of something which he 
was desirous to keep to himself, in order that he might stand 
excused for not offering it to his chief or superior. “Dares he 
thus play the hypocrite with Heaven,” thought Durward, 
“and sport with God and the saints, as he may safely do with 
men, who dare not search his nature too closely?” 

' Louis meantime resumed, after a moment’s mental devo¬ 
tion—“No, fair daughter, I and another know your real mind 
better. Ha! fair cousin of Orleans, do we not? Approach, 
fair sir, and lead this devoted vestal of ours to her horse.” 

Orleans started when the King spoke, and hastened to 
obey him; but with such precipitation of step and confusion 
that Louis called out, “Nay, cousin, rein your gallantry, and 
look before you. Why, what a headlong matter a gallant’s 
j haste is on some occasions! You had wellnigh taken Anne’s 
! hand instead of her sister’s. Sir, must I give Joan’s to you 
myself?” 

The unhappy prince looked up, and shuddered like a child, 
when forced to touch something at which it has instinctive 
horror; then making an effort, took the hand which the Prin¬ 
cess neither gave nor yet withheld. As they stood, her cold 
damp fingers inclosed in his trembling hand, with their eyes 
looking on the ground, it would have been difficult to say 
which of these two youthful beings was rendered more utterly 
miserable—the duke, who felt himself fettered to the object of 








134 


Quentin Durward 

his aversion by bonds which he durst not tear asunder, or the 
unfortunate young woman, who too plainly saw that she was 
an object of abhorrence to him to gain whose kindness she 
would willingly have died. 

“And now to horse, gentlemen and ladies. W£ will our¬ 
selves lead forth our daughter of Beaujeau,” said the King: 
“and God’s blessing and St. Hubert’s be on our morning 
sport!” 

“I am, I fear, doomed to interrupt it, sire,” said the 
Compte de Dunois—“the Burgundian envoy is before the 
gates of the castle, and demands an audience.” 

"'Demands an audience, Dunois!” replied the King. “Did 
you not answer him, as we sent you word by Oliver, that we 
were not at leisure to see him today; and that tomorrow was 
the festival of St. Martin, which, please Heaven, we would 
disturb by no earthly thoughts; and that on the succeeding 
day we were designed for Amboise; but that we would not 
fail to appoint him as early an audience, when we returned as 
our pressing affairs would permit?” 

“All this I said,” answered Dunois; “but yet, sire-” 

“Pasques-dieu! man, what is it that thus sticks in thy 
throat?” said the King. “This Burgundian’s terms must have 
been hard of digestion.” 

“Had not my duty, your Grace’s commands, and his 
character as an envoy restrained me,” said Dunois, “he should 
have tried to digest them himself; for, by our Lady of 
Orleans, I had more mind to have made him eat his own 
words than to have brought them to your Majesty.’' 

“Body of me, Dunois,” said the King, “it is strange that 
thou, one of the most impatient fellows alive, shouldst have so 
little sympathy with the like infirmity in our blunt and fiery 
cousin, Charles of Burgundy. Why, man, I mind his bluster¬ 
ing messages no more than the towers of this castle regard the 
whistling of the north-east wind, which comes from Flanders, 
as well as this brawling envoy.” 






135 


Quentin Durward 

“Know then, sire,” replied Dunois, “that the Count of 
Crevecoeur tarries below, with his retinue of pursuivants^ and 
trumpets, and says that, since your Majesty refuses him the 
audience which his master has instructed him to demand, upon 
matters of most pressing concern, he wilh remain there till 
midnight, and accost your Majesty at whatever hour you arc 
pleased to issue from your castle, whether for business, exercise, 
or devotion; and that no consideration, except the use of 
absolute force, shall compel him to desist from this resolution.’" 

“He is a fool,” said the King, with much composure. 
“Does the hot-headed Hainaulter“ think it any penance for a 
man of sense to remain for twenty-four hours quiet within the 
walls of his castle, when he hath the affairs of a kingdom to 
occupy him? These impatient coxcombs think that all men, 
like themselves, are miserable, save when in saddle and stirrup. 
Let the dogs be put up and well looked to, gentle Dunois. 
We will hold council to-day instead of hunting.” 

“My liege,” answered Dunois, “you will not thus rid 
yourself of Crevecoeur; for his master’s instructions are, that, 

! if he hath not this audience which he demands, he shall nail 
his gauntlet to the palisades before the castle, in token of 
mortal defiance on the part of his master, shall renounce the 
Duke’s fealty to France, and declare instant war.” 

“Ay,” said Louis, without any perceptible alteration of 
1 voice, but frowning until his piercing dark eyes became 

I almost invisible under his shaggy eyebrows, “is it even so?— 

will our ancient vassal prove so masterful—our dear cousin 
' treat us thus unkindly? Nay then, Dunois, we must unfold 
the Orijiamme, and cry ‘Dhiis Montjoye!'^ 

“Marry and amen, and in a most happy hour!” said the 
martial Dunois; and the guards in the hall, unable to resist 
the same impulse, stirred each upon his post, so as to produce 

■1' ^Pursuivants Attendants on the heralds; state messengers. . 

' ^Hainaulier. A dweller in Hainault, a province of Belgium. 

Dints Montjoye. The old war-cry of the French. It was derived from the 
name of St. D^nis. first bishop of Paris, who suffered martyrdom on a little hill 
(Montjoye) near Paris, in the third century. 






136 


Quentin Durward 

a low but distinct sound of clashing arms. The King cast his 
eye proudly round, and for a moment thought and looked like 
his heroic father. 

But the excitement of the moment presently gave way to 
the host of political considerations which,, at that conjuncture, 
rendered an open breach with Burgundy so peculiarly perilous. 
Edward IV., a brave and victorious king, who had in his own 
person fought thirty battles, was now established on the throne 
of England, was brother to the Duchess of Burgundy, and, it 
might well be supposed, waited but a rupture between his near 
connexion and Louis to carry into France, through the ever- 
open gate of Calais,^ those arms which had been triumphant in 
the English civil wars, and to obliterate the recollection of 
internal dissensions by that most popular of all occupations 
amongst the English, an invasion of France. To this con¬ 
sideration was added the uncertain faith of the Duke of 
Bretagne and other weighty subjects of reflection. So that, 
after a deep pause, when Louis again spoke, although in the 
same tone, it was with an altered spirit. “But God forbid,” 
he said, “that aught less than necessity should make us, the 
Most Christian King, give cause to the effusion of Christian 
blood, if anything short of dishonour may avert such a 
calamity. We tender our subjects’ safety dearer than the 
ruffle which our own dignity may receive from the rude 
breath of a malapert ambassador, who hath perhaps exceeded 
the errand with which he was charged. Admit the envoy of 
Burgundy to our presence.” 

"'Beati pacifici ”" said the Cardinal Balue. 

“True; and your eminence knoweth that they who humble 
themselves shall be exalted,” added the King. 

The cardinal spoke an “Amen,” to which few assented; 
for even the pale cheek of Orleans kindled with shame, and 
Balafre suppressed his feelings so little as to let the butt-end 

^Calais. One of the two French cities remaining in the hands of the 
English. 

iBeati paciUci. Blessed are the peacemakers. 




Quentin Durward 


137 


of his partizan fall heavily on the floor—a movement of 
impatience for which he underwent a bitter reproof from the 
cardinal, with a lecture on the mode of handling his arms 
when in presence of the sovereign. The King himself seemed 
unusually embarrassed at the silence around him. “You are 
pensive, Dunois,” he said. “You disapprove of our giving 
way to this hot-headed envoy.” 

“By no means,” said Dunois: “I meddle not with matters 
beyond my sphere. I was but thinking of asking a boon of 
your Majesty.” 

“A boon, Dunois—what is it? You are an unfrequent 
suitor, and may count on our favour.” 

“I would, then, your Majesty would send me to Evreux ^ 
to regulate the clergy,” said Dunois, with military frankness. 

“That were indeed beyond thy sphere,” replied the King, 
smiling. 

“I might order priests as well,” replied the count, “as my 
Lord Bishop of Evreux, or my lord cardinal, if he likes the 
title better, can exercise the soldiers of your Majesty’s Guard.” 

The King smiled again, and more mysteriously, while he 
whispered Dunois, “The time may come when you and I will 
regulate the priests together. But this is for the present a 
good conceited animal of a bishop. Ah, Dunois! Rome— 
Rome puts him and other burdens upon us. But patience, 
cousin, and shuffle the cards, till our hand is a stronger one.” ^ 

The flourish of trumpets in the courtyard now announced 
the arrival of the Burgundian nobleman. All in the presence- 
chamber made haste to arrange themselves according to their 
proper places of precedence, the King and his daughters 
remaining in the centre of the assembly. 

The Count of Crevecoeur,, a renowned and undaunted 
warrior, entered the apartment; and, contrary to the usage 
among the envoys of friendly powers, he appeared all armed, 
excepting his head, in a gorgeous suit of the most superb 

^Evreux. Balue was Bishop of Evreux. 

^Till our hand, etc. See Note 9.—Card Playing. 





138 


Quextix Durward 

Milan armour, made of steel, inlaid and embossed with gold, 
which was wrought into the fantastic taste called the arabesque. i 
Around his neck, and over his polished cuirass, hung his 
master’s order of the Golden Pleece,^ one of the most honoured ! 
associations of chivalry then known in Christendom. A ! 
handsome page bore his helmet behind him; a herald preceded ^ 
him, bearing his letters of credence, which he offered on his 
knee to the King; while the ambassador himself paused in the 
midst of the hall, as if to give all present time to admire his 
lofty look, commanding stature, and undaunted composure of 
countenance and manner. The rest of his attendants waited 
in the ante-chamber, or courtyard. 

“Approach, Seignior Count de Crevecoeur,” said Louis, 
after a moment’s glance at his commission ; we need not our ; 
cousin’s letters of credence either to introduce to us a warrior '! 
so well known or to assure us of your highly deserved credit 
with your master. We trust that your fair partner, who 
shares some of our ancestral blood, is in good health. Had you 
brought I'lCr in your hand, seignior count, we might have 
thought you w’ore your armour, on this unwonted occasion, to 
maintain the superiority of her charms against the amorous , 
chivalry of France. As it is, we cannot guess the reason of 
this complete panoply.” 

“Sire,” replied the ambassador, “the Count of Crevecoeur 
must lament his misfortune, and entreat your forgiveness, that j 
he cannot, on this occasion, reply wn'th such humble deference 
as is due to the roval courtesy wdth wdiich your Majesty has 
honoured him. But, although it is only the voice of Philip 
Crevecoeur de Cordes w’hich speaks, the words which he 
utters must be those of his gracious lord and sovereign the 
Duke of Burgundy.” 

“And w’hat has CrA'CCcrur to say in the words of Bur¬ 
gundy?” said Louis, wdth an assumption of sufficient dignity-. 

^Order of the Golden Fleece. The military order of the Golden Fleece was 
instituted by Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, in the year 142Q, the King ot 
Spain being grand master of the order, as Duke of Burgundy. The number ot 
knights was limited to thirty-one (Laing). — Scott. 




139 


Quentin Durward 


“Yet hold—remember, that in this presence Philip Crevecoeur 
de Cordes speaks to him who is his sovereign’s sovereign.” 

Cr^Tcceur bowed,, and then spoke aloud: t^ing of 

France, the mighty Duke of Burgundy once more sends you a 
written schedule of the wrongs and oppressions committed on 
his frontiers by your Alajesty s garrisons and officers, and the 
first point of inquiry is, whether it is your Majesty’s purpose 

to make him amends for these injuries?” 

The King, looking slightly at the memorial which the 
herald delivered to him upon his knee, said, “these matters 
have been already long before our council. Of the injuries 
complained of, some are in requital of those sustained by my 
subjects, some are affirmed without any proof, some have been 
retaliated by the Duke’s garrisons and soldiers; and if there 
remain any'which fall under none of those predicaments, we 
are not, as a Christian prince, averse to make satisfaction for 
wrongs actually sustained by our neighbour, though com¬ 
mitted not only without our countenance, but against our 


express order.” 

“I will convey your Majesty’s answer,” said the ambassa¬ 
dor, “to my most gracious master; yet, let me say that, as it is 
in no degree different from the evasive replies which have 
already been returned to his just complaints, I cannot hope 
that it will afford the means of re-establishing peace and 
friendship betwixt France and Burgundy.” 

“Be that at God’s pleasure,” said the King. “It is not for 
dread of thy master’s arms, but for the sake of peace only, that 
I return so temperate an answer to his injurious reproaches. 

Proceed with thine errand.” ^ 

“My master’s next demand,” said the ambassador, is, 
that your Majesty will cease your secret and underhand deal¬ 
ings with his towns of Ghent, Liege, and Malines. He 
requests that vour Majesty will recall the secret agents by 
whose means the discontents of his good citizens of F.anders 
are inflamed; and dismiss from your Majesty s dominions, or 
rather deliver up to the condign punishment of the-: liege 




140 


QuENTIxX Durward 


lord, those traitorous fugitives who, having fled from the scene 
of their machinations, have found too ready a refuge in Paris, ! 
Orleans, Tours, and other French cities.” j 

“Say to the Duke of Burgundy,” replied the King, “that I 
know of no such indirect practices as those with which he 
injuriously charges me; that my subjects of France have fre¬ 
quent intercourse with the good cities of Flanders, for the 
purpose of mutual benefit by free traffic, which it would be as ' 
much contrary to the Duke’s interest as mine to interrupt; j 
and that many Flemings have residence in my kingdom, and ] 
enjoy the protection of my laws for the same purpose; but j 
none, to our knowledge, for those of treason or mutiny against 
the Duke. Proceed with your message; you have heard my 
answer.” 

“As formerly, sire, with pain,” replied the Count of Creve- 
coeur; “it not being of that direct or explicit nature Vvdiich 
the Duke, my master, will accept, in atonement for a long 
train of secret machinations, not the less certain though now 
disavowed by your Majesty. But I proceed with my message. 
The Duke of Burgundy further requires the King of France 
to send back to his dominions without delay, and under a 
secure safeguard, the persons of Isabelle Countess of'Croye, 
and of her relation and guardian the Countess Hameline, of 
the same family; in respect the said Countess Isabelle, being, 
by the law of the country and the feudal tenure of her estates, 
the ward of the said Duke of Burgundy, hath fled from his 
dominions, and from the charge which he, as a careful 
guardian, was willing to extend over her, and is here main¬ 
tained in secret by the King of France, and by him fortified in 
her contumacy to the Duke, her natural lord and guardian, 
contrary to the laws of God and man, as they ever have been 
acknowledged in civilised Europe. Once more I pause for 
your Majesty’s reply.” 

“You did well. Count de Crevecoeur,” said Louis, scorn¬ 
fully, “to begin your embassy at an early hour; for if it be 
your purpose to call on me to account for the flight of every 







Quentin Durward 


141 


vassal whom your master’s heady passion may have driven 
from his dominions, the bead-roll ^ may last till sunset. Who 
can affirm that these ladies are in my dominions? Who can 
presume to say, if it be so, that I have either countenanced 
their flight hither or have received them with offers of pro¬ 
tection ? Nay, who is it will assert that, if they are in France, 
their place of retirement is within my knowledge?” 

“Sire,” said Crevecoeur, “may it please your Majesty, I 
was provided with a witness on this subject—one who beheld 
these fugitive ladies in the inn called the Fleur-de-Lys, not far 
from this castle; one who saw your Majesty in their company, 
though under the unworthy disguise of a burgess of Tours; 
one who received from them, in your royal presence, messages 
and letters to their friends in Flanders—all which he con¬ 
veyed to the hand and ear of the Duke of Burgundy.” 

“Bring him forward,” said the King; “place the man 
before my face who dares maintain these palpable falsehoods.” 

“You speak in triumph, sire; for you are well aware that 
this witness no longer exists. When he lived, he was called 
Zamet iMaugrabin, by birth one of these Bohemian wanderers. 
He was yesterday, as I have learned,, executed by a party of 
your Majesty’s provost-marshal, to prevent, doubtless, his 
standing here to verify what he said of this matter to the 
Duke of Burgundy, in presence of his council, and of me, 
Philip Crevecoeur de Cordes.” 

“Now, by our Lady of Embrun!” said the King, “so 
gross are these accusations, and so free of consciousness am I 
of aught that approaches them, that, by the honour of a king, 
I laugh rather than am wroth at them. My provost-guard 
daily put to death, as is their duty, thieves and vagabonds; 
and is my crown to be slandered with whatever these 
thieves and vagabonds may have said to our hot cousin of 
Burgundy and his wise counsellors? I pray you, tell my kind 
cousin, if he loves such companions, he had best keep them in 

1 Bead-roll. Telling one’s beads is the use of the -rosary in repeating the pmyers 
of the Roman Catholic Church; the bead roll is, therefore, the entire list in the 
series. 





142 Quentin Durvvaru 

his own estates; for here they are like to meet short shrift’ 
and a tight cord.” 

“My master needs no such subjects, sir king,” answered 
the count in a tone more disrespectful than he had yet per¬ 
mitted himself to make use of; “for the noble Duke uses not 
to inquire of witches, wandering Eg^’ptians, or others upon 
the destiny and fate of his neighbours and allies.” 

“We have had patience enough and to spare,” said the 
King, interrupting him; “and since thy sole errand here seems 
to be for the purpose of insult, we will send some one in our 
name to the Duke of Burgundy—convinced, in thus demean¬ 
ing thyself towards us, thou hast exceeded thy commission, 
whatever that may have been.” 

“On the contrary,” said Crevecceur, “I have not yet 
acquitted myself of it. Hearken, Louis of Valois, King of 
France. Hearken, nobles and gentlemen who may be present. 
Hearken, all good and true men. And thou, Toison d’Or,” 
addressing the herald, “make proclamation after me. I, Philip 
Crevecceur of Cordes., Count of the Empire, and Knight of 
the honourable and princely Order of the Golden Fleece, in 
the name of the most puissant Lord and Prince, Charles, by 
the grace of God, Duke of Burgundy and Lotharingia, of 
Brabant and Limbourg, of Luxembourg and of Gueldres, 
Earl of Flanders and of Artois, Count Palatine of Hainault, 
of Holland, Zealand, Namur, and Zutphen, Marquis of the 
Holy Empire, Lord of P'riezeland,, Salines, and Malines, do 
give you, Louis, King of France, openly to know, that, you 
having refused to remedy the various griefs, wrongs, and 
offences done and wrought by 3’ou, or by and through your 
aid, suggestion, and instigation, against the said Duke and his 
loving subjects, he, by my mouth, renounces all allegiance and 
fealty towards your crown and dignity, pronounces you false 
and faithless, and defies you as a prince and as a man. There 
lies my gage,“ in evidence of what I have said.” 

^Shrift. Confession made to a priest by a dying person. 

^There lies my gage. Gage, a pledge; anything thrown down as a token of 
challenge to combat; most commonly a glove or gauntlet. 





Quentin Durward 


143 


So saying, he plucked the gaunj:let off his right hand and 
Hung it down on the floor of the hall. 

Until this last climax of audacity, there had been a deep 
silence in the royal apartment during the extraordinary scene; 
but no sooner had the clash of the gauntlet, when cast down, 
been echoed by the deep voice of Toison d’Or, the Burgundian 
herald., with the ejaculation, “Vive Bourgogne!” than there 
was a general tumult. While Dunois, Orleans, old Lord 
Crawford, and on6 or two others, whose rank authorised their 
interference, contended which should lift up the gauntlet, the 
others in the hall exclaime'd, “Strike him down! Cut him to 
pieces! Comes he here to insult the King of France in his own 
; palace?” 

j But the King appeased the tumult by exclaiming, in a 

voice like thunder, which overawed and silenced every other 
sound, “Silence, my lieges! lay not a hand on the man, not a 
finger on the gage. And you, sir count, of what is your life 
composed or how^ is it warranted, that you thus place it on the 
cast of a die so perilous ? Or is your duke made of a different 
metal from other princes, since he thus asserts his pretended 
quarrel in a manner so unusual?” 

“He is indeed framed of a different and more noble metal 
than the other princes of Europe,” said the undaunted Count 
of Crevecoeur; “for, when not one of them dared to give 
shelter to you—to you, I say. King Louis—when you were yet 
I only Dauphin, an exile from France, and pursued by the whole 
bitterness of your father’s revenge and all the power of his 
kingdom, you were received and protected like a brother by 
my noble master, whose generosity of disposition you have so 
grossly misused. Farewell, sire, my mission is discharged.” 
So saying, the Count de Crevecoeur left the apartment 
! abruptly, and without farther leave-taking. ^ 

“After him—after him—take up the gauntlet and afte^ 
him!” said the King. “I mean not you Dunois, nor you, my 
Lord of Crawford, who, methinks, may be too old for such 
hot frays; nor you. Cousin of Orleans, who are too young for 




144 


Quentin Durward 

them. My lord cardinal—my Lord Bishop of Auxerre—it 
is your holy office to make peace among princes; do you lift 
the gauntlet,, and remonstrate with Count Crevecoeur on the 
sin he has committed, in thus insulting a great monarch in his j 

own court, and forcing us to bring the miseries of war upon j 

his kingdom and that of his neighbour.” | 

Upon this direct personal appeal, the Cardinal Balue pro- ! 

ceeded to lift the gauntlet, with such precaution as one would ' 

touch an adder—so great was apparently His aversion to this | 

symbol of war—and presently left the royal apartment to | 

hasten after the challenger. 

Louis paused and looked round the circle of his courtiers, < 
most of whom, except such as we have already distinguished, 
being men of low birth, and raised to their rank in the King’s 
household for other gifts than courage or feats of arms, looked 
pale on each other, and had obviously received an unpleasant ! 
impression from the scene which had been just acted. Louis 
gazed on them with contempt, and then said aloud, ^Although 
the Count of Crevecoeur be presumptuous and overweening, it 
must be confessed that in him the Duke of Burgundy hath as 
bold a servant as ever bore message for a prince. I would I 
knew where to find as faithful an envoy to carry back my 
answer.” 

“You do your French nobles injustice, sire,” said Dunois; 
“not one of them but would carry a defiance to Burgundy on 
the point of his sword.” 

“And, sire,” said old Crawford, “you wrong also the Scot¬ 
tish gentlemen who serve you. I or any of my followers, 
being of meet rank, would not hesitate a moment to call yon¬ 
der proud count to a reckoning; my own arm is yet strong 
enough for the purpose, if I have but your Majesty’s; 
permission.” 

“But 3^our Majesty,” continued Dunois, “will employ us 
in no service through which we may win honour to ourselves; 
to 3"Our Majesty, or to France.” 





Quentin Durward 


145 


“Say, rather,” said the King, “that I will not give way, 
Dunois, to the headlong impetuosity which, on some punctilio 
of chivalry, would w'reck yourselves, the throne, France, and 
alL There is not one of you who knows not how precious 
every hour of peace is at this moment, when so necessary to 
heal the wounds of a distracted country; yet there is not one 
of you who would not rush into war on account of the tale of 
a wandering gipsy, or of some errant damosel, whose reputa¬ 
tion, perhaps, is scarce higher. Here comes the cardinal, and 
we trust with more pacific tidings. How now, my lord^—have 
you brought the count to reason and to temper?” 

“Sire,” said Balue, “my task hath been difficult. I put it 
to yonder proud count, how he dared to use towards your 
Majesty the presumptuous reproach with which his audience 
had broken up, and which must be understood as proceeding, 
not from his master, but from his own insolence, and as plac¬ 
ing him therefore in your Majesty’s discretion, for what 
penalty you might think proper.” 

“You said right,” replied the King; “and what was his 
answer?” 

“The count,” continued the cardinal, “had at that moment 
his foot in the stirrup, ready to mount; and, on hearing my 
expostulation, he turned his head without altering his position. 
‘Had I,’ said he, ‘been fifty leagues distant, and had heard by 
report that a question vituperative of my prince had^been 
asked by the King of France, I had, even at that distance, 
instantly mounted, and returned to disburden my mind of the 
answer which I gave him but now.’ ” 

“I said, sirs,” said the King, turning around, without any 
show of angry emotion, “that in the Count Philip of Creve- 
cceur our cousin the Duke possesses as worthy a servant as 
ever rode at a prince’s right hand. But you prevailed with 
him to stay?” 

“To stay for twenty-four hours; and in the meanwhde 
to receive again his gage of defiance,” said the cardinal: “he 
has dismounted at the Fleur-de-Lys. 



146 


Quentin Durward 

“See that he be nobly attended and cared for at oui 
charges,” said the King; “such a servant is a jewel in a 
prince’s crown. Twenty-four hours!” he added, muttering to 
himself, and, looking as if he were stretching his eyes to see 
into futurity—“twenty-four hours! ’tis of the shortest. Yet 
twenty-four hours, ably and skilfully employed, may be worth 
a year in the hand of indolent or incapable agents. Well. To 
the forest—to the forest, my gallant lords! Orleans, my fair : 

kinsman, lay aside that modesty, though it becomes you; mind ; 

not my Joan’s coyness. The Loire may as soon avoid min- ■ 

gling.with the Cher as she from favouring your suit, or you | 

from preferring it,” he added as the unhappy prince moved I 

slowly on after his betrothed bride. “And now for your boar- 
spears, gentlemen; for Allegre, my pricker, hath harboured 
one ^ that will try both" dog and man. Dunois, lend me your 
spear; take mine, it is too weighty for me; but when did you 
complain of such a fault in your lance? To horse—to horse, 
gentlemen.” 

And all the chase rode on. 


Harboured one. The huntsman has found ;.he “harbour” or lair of a wild boar. 



CHAPTER IX. 



THE BOAR-HU NT 


I will converse with unrespective ^ boys 
And iron-witted fools. None are for me 
That look into me with suspicious eyes. 

King Richard. 

All the experience which the cardinal had been able to 
collect of his master’s disposition did not, upon the present 
occasion, prevent his falling into a great error of policy. His 
vanity induced him to think that he had been more successful 
in prevailing upon the Count of Crevecoeur to remain at 
Tours than any other moderator whom the King might have 
employed would, in all probability, have been. And as he was 
well aware of the importance which Louis attached to the 
postponement of a war with the Duke of Burgundy, he could 
not help showing that he conceived himself to have rendered 
the King great and acceptable service. He pressed nearer to 
the King’s person than he was wont to do, and endeavoured 
to engage him in conversation on the events of the morning. 

This was injudicious in more respects than one; for 
princes love not to see their subjects approach them with an 
air conscious of deserving, and thereby seeming desirous to 
extort acknowledgment and recompense for their services; 
and Louis, the most jealous monarch that ever lived, was 
peculiarly averse and inaccessible to any one who seemed 
either to presume upon service rendered or to pry into his 
secrets. 

Yet, hurried away, as the most cautious sometimes are, by 
the self-satisfied humour of the moment, the cardinal con¬ 
tinued to ride on the King’s right hand, turning the discourse, 

^Unrespective. Thoughtless. 


147 





148 


Quentin Durward 

whenever it was possible, upon Crevecceur and his embass\ , 
which, although it might be the matter at that moment most 
in the King’s thoughts, was nevertheless precisely that which 
he was least willing to converse on. At length Louis, who 
had listened to him with attention, yet without having returned 
any answer which could tend to prolong the conversation, 
signed to Dunois, who rode at no great distance, to come up 
on the other side of his horse. 

/‘We came hither for sport and exercise,” said he, “but the 
reverend father here would have us hold a council of state. 

“I hope your Highness will excuse my assistance,” said 
Dunois; “I am born to fight the battles of France, and have 
heart and hand for that, but I have no head for her councils.” 

“My lord cardinal hath a head turned for nothing else, 
Dunois,” answered Louis; “he hath confessed Crevecoeur at 
the castle gate, and he hath communicated to us his whole 
shrift. Said you not the u'holef' he continued, with an 
emphasis on the word, and a glance at the cardinal, which 
shot from betwixt his long dark eyelashes, as a dagger gleams 
when it leaves the scabbard. 

The cardinal trembled, as, endeavouring to reply to the 
King’s jest; he said, “That though his order were obliged to 
conceal the secrets of their penitents in general, there was no 
sigillu7n confessionis^ which could not be melted at his 
Majesty’s breath.” 

“And as his Eminence,” said the King, “is ready to com¬ 
municate the secrets of others to us, he naturally expects that 
we should be equally communicative to him; and, in order to 
get upon this reciprocal footing, he is very reasonably desirous 
to know if these two Ladies of Croye be actually in our terri¬ 
tories. We are sorry we cannot indulge his curiosity, not 
ourselves knowing in what precise place errant damsels, dis¬ 
guised princesses, distressed countesses, may lie leaguer“ within 

^Sigillum confessionis. Seal of confession. 

^Leaguer. The lying-place of an army; a camp, a siege. To “lie leaguer” is 
to lie encamped. 


Quentin Durward 


149 


our dominions, which are, we thank God and our Lady of 
Embrun, rather too extensive for us to answer easily his 
Eminence’s most reasonable inquiries. But supposing they 
were with us, what say you, Duriois, to our cousin’s peremp¬ 
tory demand ?” 

“I will answer you, my liege, if you will tell me in 
sincerity whether you want war or peace,” replied Dunois, 
with a frankness which, while it arose out of his own native 
openness and intrepidity of character, made him from time to 
time a considerable favourite with Louis, who, like all 
astucious ^ persons, w’as as desirous of looking into the hearts 
of others as of concealing his own. 

“By my halidome,” said he, “I should be as well contented 
as thyself, Dunois, to tell thee my purpose, did I myself but 
know it exactly. But say I declared for war, what should I 
do with this beautiful and wealthy young heiress, supposing 
her to be in my dominions?” 

“Bestow her in marriage on one of your own gallant fol¬ 
lowers, who has a heart to love and an arm to protect her,” 
said Dunois. 

“Upon thyself, ha?” said the King. ‘‘Fasques-dieu! thou 
art more politic than I took thee for, with all thy bluntness.” 

“Nay, sire,” answered Dunois, “I am aught except politic. 
By our Lady of Orleans, I come to the point at once, as I ride 
my horse at the ring.“ Your Majesty owes the house of 
Orleans at least one happy marriage.” 

“And I will pay it, count— Pasques-dieu, I will pay it! 
See 3'ou not yonder fair couple?” 

The King pointed to the unhappy Duke of Orleans and 
the Princess, who, neither daring to remain at a greater 
distance from the King nor in his sight appear separate from 
each other, were riding side by side, yet with an interval of 
two or three yards betwixt them—a space which timidity on 

^Astucious. An infrequent form derived from the French; astute, crafty. 

M 5 / ride my horse at the ring. An allusion to one of the games of the tour¬ 
nament; the knight endeavoring to catch on his lance a ring suspended from a 
support,’ while riding at full speed. 








150 


Quentin Durwaru 

the one side and aversion on the other prevented them from 
diminishing, while neither dared to increase it. 

Dunois looked in the direction of the King’s signal, and as 
the situation of his unfortunate relative and the destined bride 
reminded him of nothing so much as of two dogs, which, 
forcibly linked together, remain nevertheless as widely sep¬ 
arated as the length of their collars will permit, he could not 
help shaking his head, though he ventured not on any other 
reply to the hypocritical tyrant. Louis seemed to guess his 
thoughts. 

“It will be a peaceful and quiet household they will keep— 
not much disturbed with children, I should augur. But these 
are not always a blessing.” 

It was, perhaps, a recollection of his own filial Ingratitude 
that made the King pause as he uttered the last reflection, and 
which converted the sneer that trembled on his lip into some¬ 
thing resembling an expression of contrition. But he instantly 
proceeded in another tone. 

“Frankly, my Dunois, much as I revere the holy sacra¬ 
ment of matrimony (here he crossed himself), I would rather 
the house of Orleans raised for me such gallant soldiers as thy 
father and thyself, who share the blood-royal of France with¬ 
out claiming its rights, than that the country should be torn 
to pieces, like to England, by w^rs arising from the rivalry of 
legitimate candidates for the crown. The lion should never 
have more than one cub.” 

Dunois sighed and was silent, conscious that contradicting 
his arbitrary sovereign might well hurt his kinsman’s interests, 
but could do him no service; yet he could not forbear adding, 
in the next moment— 

“Since your Majesty has alluded to the birth of my father, 
I must needs own that, setting the frailty of his parents on one 
side, he might be termed happier, and more fortunate, as the 
son of lawless love than of conjugal hatred.” 

“Thou art a scandalous fellow, Dunois, to speak thus of 
holy wedlock,” answered Louis jestingly. “But to the devil 
with the discourse, for the boar is unharboured. Lay on the 


QuiiNTlN DuRWARD ^ 


i5i 


dogs, in the name of the holy St. Hubert! Ha! ha? tra-la-la- 
lira-la!” And the King’s horn rung merrily through the 
woods as he pushed forward on the chase, followed by two or 
three of his guards, amongst whom was our friend Quentin 
Durward. And here it was remarkable that, even in the keen 
prosecution of his favourite sport, the King, in indulgence of 
his caustic disposition, found leisure to amuse himself by tor¬ 
menting Cardinal Balue. 

It was one of that able statesman’s weaknesses, as we have 
elsewhere hinted, to suppose himself, though of low rank and 
limited education, qualified to play the courtier and the man 
of gallantry. He did not, indeed, actually enter the lists of 
chivalrous combat, like Becket, or levy soldiers like Wolsey.^ 
But gallantry, in which they also were proficients, was his 
professed pursuit; and he likewise affected great fondness for 
the martial amusement of the chase. Yet, however well he 
might succeed with certain ladies, to whom his power, his 
wealth, and his influence as a statesman might atone for 
deficiencies in appearance and manners, the gallant horses, 
which he purchased at almost any price, were totally insensible 
to the dignity of carrying a cardinal, and paid no more respect 
to him than they would have done to his father, the carter, 


miller, or tailor, whom he rivalled in horsemanship. The 
King knew this, and, by alternately exciting and checking his 
own horse, he brought that of the cardinal, whom he kept 
close by his side, into such a state of mutiny against his rider 
that it became apparent they must soon part company; and 
then, in the midst of its starting, bolting, rearing and lashing 
out alternately, the royal tormentor rendered the rider miser¬ 
able, by questioning him upon many rffairs of importance, and 
hinting his purpose to take that opportunity of communicating 
to him some of those secrets of state which the cardinal had 
but a little while before seemed so anxious to learn." 


^Like Becket . . . like Wolsey. Becket .(1118-70), Archbishop of Canterbury, 
and Chancellor of England under Henry II., was an adept in all knightly exercises, 
and fought as a knight in the war with France; Cardina Wolsev, (1471-1530), 
Chancellor of England under Henry VIll., controlled the policies of the kingdom 
until liis loss of Henry’s favor in 1529. 

'^Anxious to learn. See Note Balue's Ilorseinansinp. 








152 


Quentin Durward 


A more awkward situation could hardly be imagined than 
that of a privy-councillor forced to listen to and reply to his 
sovereign while each fresh gambade^ of his unmanageable 
horse placed him in a new and more precarious attitude—his 
violet robe flying loose in every direction, and nothing securing 
him from an instant and perilous fall save the depth of the 
saddle, and its height before and behind. Dunois laughed 
without restraint; while the King, who had a private mode of 
enjoying his jest inwardly, without laughing aloud, mildly 
rebuked his minister on his eager passion for the chase, which - 
would not permit him to dedicate a few moments to business. 
“I will no longer be your hinderance to a course,” continued 
he, addressing the terrified cardinal, and giving his own horse 
the rein at the same time. 

Before Balue could utter a word by way of answer or 
apology, his horse, seizing the bit with his teeth, went forth at 
an uncontrollable gallop, soon leaving behind the King and 
Dunois, who followed at a more regulated pace, enjoying the 
statesman s distressed predicament. If any of our readers has 
chanced to be run away with in his time, as we ourselves have 
in ours, he will have a full sense at once of the pain, peril, and 
absurdity of the situation. Those four limbs of the quadruped,, 
which, no way under the rider s control, nor sometimes under 
that of the creature they more properly belong to, fly at such a 
rate as if the hindermost meant to overtake the foremost; those 
clinging legs of the biped which we so often wish safely 
planted on the green sward, but which now only augment our 
distress by pressing the animal’s sides; the hands which have 
forsaken the bridle for the mane; the body which, instead of 
sitting upright on the centre of gravity, as old Angelo" used 
to recommend, or stooping forward like a jockey’s at New¬ 
market, lies, rather than hangs, crouched upon the back of the 
animal, with no better chance of saving itself than a sack of 
corn—combine to make a- picture more than sufficiently 

^Gambade. Lurch. 

^Old Angelo. A celebrated riding and fencing-master at the beginning of 
the nineteenth century. 


153 


Quentin Durward 


I 


ludicrous to spectators, however uncomfortable to the 
exhibiter. But add to this some singularity of dress or appear¬ 
ance on the part of the unhappy cavalier—a robe of office, a 
splendid uniform, or any other peculiarity of costume—and 
let the scene of action be a race-course, a review, a procession, 
or any other place of concourse and public display; and if the 
poor wight would escape being the object of a shout of inex¬ 
tinguishable laughter, he must contrive to break a limb or 
two, or which will be more effectual, to be killed on the spot; 
for on no slighter condition will his fall excite anything like 
serious sympathy. On the present occasion, the short, violet- 
coloured gown of the cardinal, which he used as a riding- 
dress (havingchanged his long robes before he left the castle),, 
his scarlet stockings and scarlet hat, with the long strings 
hanging down, together with his utter helplessness, gave 
infinite zest to his exhibition of horsemanship. 

The horse, having taken matters entirely into his own 
hand, flew rather than galloped up a long green avenue, over¬ 
took the pack in hard pursuit of the boar, and then, having 
overturned one or two yeomen-prickers, who little expected to 
be charged in the rear, having ridden down several dogs, and 
greatly confused the chase, animated by the clamourous 
expostulations and threats of the huntsman, carried the terri¬ 
fied cardinal past the formidable animal itself, which was 
rushing on at a speedy trot, furious and embossed with the 
foam which he churned around his tusks. Balue, on beholding 
himself so near the boar, set up a dreadful cry for help, which, 
or perhaps the sight of the boar, produced such an effect on his 
horse, that the animal interrupted its headlong career by sud¬ 
denly springing to one side; so that the cardinal, who had 
long kept his seat only because the motion was straight for¬ 
ward, now fell heavily to the ground. The conclusion of 
Bailie’s chase took place so near the boar that, had not the 
animal been at that moment too much engaged about his own 
affairs, the vicinity might have proved as fatal to the cardinal 
as it is said to have done to Favila, king of the Visigoths, of 





154 


Quentin Durward 

Spain. The powerful churchman got off, hov’ever, for the 
fright, and, crawling as hastily as he could out of the way of 
hounds and huntsmen, saw the whole chase sweep by him 
without affording hini assistance; for hunters in those days 
were as little moved by sympathy for such misfortunes as they 
are in our own. 

The King, as he passed, said to Dunois., “Yonder lies his 
Eminence low enough; he is no great huntsman, though for a 
fisher, when a secret is to be caught, he may match St. Peter 
himself. He has, however, for once, I think, met with his 
match.” 

The cardinal did not hear the words, but the scornful look 
with which they were spoken led him to suspect their general 
import. The devil is said to seize such opportunities of temp¬ 
tation as was now afforded by the passions of Balue, bitterly 
moved as they had been by the scorn of the King. The 
momentary fright was over so soon as he had assured himself 
that his fall was harmless; but mortified vanity, and resent¬ 
ment against his sovereign, had a much longer influence on 
his feelings. 

After all the chase had passed him, a single cavalier, who 
seemed rather to be a spectator than a partaker of the sport, 
rode up with one or two attendants, and expressed no small 
surprise to find the cardinal upon the ground, without a horse 
or attendants, and in such a plight as plainly showed the 
nature of the accident which had placed him there. To dis¬ 
mount and offer his assistance in this predicament, to cause 
one of his attendants to resign a staid and quiet palfrey ^ for 
the cardinal’s use, to express his surprise at the customs of the 
French court, which thus permitted them to abandon to the 
dangers of Te chase, and forsake in liis need, their wisest 
statesman, were the natural mod^s of assistance and consola¬ 
tion, which so strange a rencontre supplied to Crevecoeur; for 

^Palfrey. An ordinary riding horse employed when ease rather than strength 
or spirit was desired. The word comes through the old French palefrei, from the 
Latin para-veredus, a post-horse. 


155 


Quentin Durward 

it was the Burgundian ambassador who came to the assistance 
of the fallen cardinal. « 

He found the minister in a lucky time and humour for 
essaying some of those practices on his fidelity to which it is 
well known that Balue had the criminal weakness to listen. 
Already in the morning, as the jealous temper of Louis had 
suggested, more had passed betwixt them than the cardinal 
durst have reported to his master. But although he had 
listened with gratified ears to the high value which, he was 
assured by Crevecmur, the Duke of Burgundy placed upon 
his person and talents, and not without a feeling of tempta¬ 
tion, when the count hinted at the munificence of his master’s 
disposition, and the rich benefices of Flanders, it was not until 
the accident, as we have related, had highly irritated him, that, 
. stung with wounded vanity, he resolved, in a fatal hour, to 
• show Louis XL that no enemy can be so dangerous as an 
ofiended friend and confidant. 

' On the present occasion, he hastily requested Crevecoeur 

to separate from him, lest they should be observed, but 
appointed him a meeting for the evening in the abbey of St. 
Martin’s at Tours, after vesper service, and that in a tone 
which assured the Burgundian that his master had obtained 
an advantage hardly to have been hoped for, except in such a 
moment of exasperation. 

In the meanwhile, Louis, who, though the most politic 
prince of his time, upon this, as on other occasions, had suf¬ 
fered his passions to interfere with his prudence, followed 
contentedly the chase of the wild boar, which was now come 
to an interesting point. It had so happened that a sounder 
{i.e., in the language of the period, a boar of only two years 
■ old) had crossed the track of the propfer object of the chase, 
and withdrawn in pursuit of him all the dogs, except two or 
1 three couple of old stanch hounds,, and the greater part of 
: the huntsmen. The King saw, with internal glee, Dunois, 
^ as well as others, follow upon this false scent, and enjoyed in 
i secret the thought of 'triumphing over that accomplished 







156 


Quentin Durward 

knight in the art of venerie/ which was then thought almo I 
as glorious as war. Louis was well mounted, and followed 
close on the hounds; so that, when the original boar turned 
to bay in a marshy piece of ground, there was no one near him 
but the King himself. 

Louis showed all the bravery and expertness of an expe¬ 
rienced huntsman ; for, unheeding the danger, he rode up to 
the tremendous animal, which was defending itself with fury 
against the dogs, and struck him with his boar-spear; yet, as 
the horse shied from the boar, the blow was not so effectual 
as either to kill or disable him. No effort could prevail on 
the horse to charge a second time; so that the King, dis¬ 
mounting, advanced on foot against the furious animal, hold¬ 
ing naked in his hand one of those short, sharp, straight, and 
pointed swords which huntsmen used for such encounters. 
The boar instantly quitted the dogs to rush on his human 
enemy, while the King, taking his station, and posting himself 
firmly, presented the sword, with the purpose of aiming it at 
the boar’s throat, or rather chest, within the collar-bone ; in 
which case, the weight of the beast, and the impetuosity of its 
career, would have served to accelerate its own destruction. 
But, owing to the wetness of the ground, the King’s foot 
slipped, just as this delicate and perilous manoeuvre ought to 
have been accomplished, so that the point of the sword 
encountering the cuirass “ of bristles on the outside of the 
creature’s shoulder, glanced off without making any impres¬ 
sion, and Louis fell flat on the ground. This was so far 
fortunate for the monarch, because the animal, owing to the 
King’s fall, missed his blow in his turn, and in passing only 
rent with his tusk the King’s short hunting-cloak, instead of 
ripping up his thigh. But when, after running a little a-head 
in the fury of his course, the boar turned to repeat his attack 
on the King at the moment when he was rising, the life of 

^Venerie. Hunting; from Latin venari. to hunt. 

^Cuirass. A breastplate, ordinarily of metal; originally of hide. Cuir means 
leather. 


157 


Quentin Durward 

Louis was in imminent danger. At this critical moment, 
Quentin Durward, who had been thrown out in the chase by 
the slowness of his horse, but, who, nevertheless, had luckily- 
distinguished and followed the blast of the King’s horn, rode 
up and transfixed the animal with his spear. 

The King, who had by this time recovered his feet, came 
in turn to Durward’s assistance, and cut the animal’s throat 
with his sword. Before speaking a word to Quentin, he 
measured the huge creature not only by paces, but even by 
feet; then wiped the sweat from his brow and the blood from 
his hands; then took off his hunting cap, hung it on a bush, 
and devoutly made his orisons^ to the little leaden images 
which it contained; and at length, looking upon Durward, 
said to him, “Is it thou, my young Scot? Thou hast begun thy 
woodcraft well, and Maitre Pierre owes thee as good enter¬ 
tainment as he gave thee at the Fleur-de-Lys yonder. Why 
j dost thou not speak? Thou hast lost thy forwardness and 
! fire, methinks, at the court, where others find both.” 

Quentin, as shrewd a youth as ever Scottish breeze breathed 
caution into, had imbibed more awe than confidence towards 
his dangerous master, and was far too wise to embrace the 
! perilous permission of familiarity which he seemed thus invited 
to use. He answered in very few and well-chosen words, that 
if he ventured to address his Majesty at all, it could be but to 
crave pardon for the rustic boldness with which he had con¬ 
ducted himself when ignorant of his high rank. 

“Tush! man,” said the King; “I forgive thy sauciness for 
thy spirit and shrewdness. I admired how near thou didst hit 
upon my gossip Tristan’s occupation. You have nearly tasted 
of his handiwork since,, as I am given to understand. I bid 
thee beware of him: he is a merchant who deals in rough 
bracelets and tight necklaces. Help me to my horse. I like 
thee, and will do thee good. Build on no man’s favour but 
mine—not even on thine uncle’s or Lord Crawford’s; and say 
’ nothing of thy timely aid in this matter of the boar, for if a 


Wrisons. Prayers. 






158 


Quentix Durward 

man makes boast that he has served a king in such a pinch, lie 
must take the braggart humour for its own recompense. 

The King then winded his horn, which brought up Dunois 
and several attendants, whose compliments he received on the 
slaughter of such a noble animal, without scrupling to appro¬ 
priate a much greater share of merit than actually belonged to 
him; for he mentioned Durward’s assistance as slightly as a 
sportsman of rank, who, in boasting of the number of birds 
which he has bagged, does not always dilate upon the presence 
and assistance of the gamekeeper. He then ordered Dunois 
to see that the boar’s carcass was sent to the brotherhood of 
St. Martin, at Tours, to mend their fare on holydays, and 
that they might remember the King in their private devotions. 

“And,” said Louis, “who hath seen his Eminence my lord 
cardinal? Methinks it were but poor courtesy, and cold 
regard to holy church, to leave him afoot here in the forest.” 

“May it please you, sire,” said Quentin, when he saw | 
that all were silent, “I saw his lordship the cardinal accommo¬ 
dated with a horse, on which he left the forest.” 

“Heaven cares for its own,” replied the King. ‘ Set for- | 
ward to the castle, my lords; we’ll hunt no more this morning. 1 
You, sir squire,” addressing Quentin, “reach me my wood- 
knife; it has dropped from the sheath beside the quarry there, j 
Ride on Dunois; I follow instantly.” 

Louis, whose lightest motions were often conducted like 
stratagems, thus gained an opportunity to ask Quentin pri¬ 
vately, “My bonny Scot, thou hast an eye, I see. Canst thou 
tell me who helped the cardinal to a palfrey? Some stranger, 

I should suppose; for, as I passed without stopping, the 
courtiers would likely be in no hurry to do him such a timely 
good turn.” 

“I saw those who aided his Eminence but an instant, sire,” 
said Quentin; “it was only a hasty glance, for I had been 
unluckily thrown out, and was riding fast, to be in my place; 
but I think it was the ambassador of Burgundy and his 
people.” 







.159 


Quentin Durward 

“Ha!” said Louis. “Well, be it so; France will match 
them yet.” 

There was nothing more remarkable happened, and the 
King, Ayith his retinue, returned to the castle. 





CHAPTER X. 


THE SENTINEL 

Where should this music be? i’ the air, or the earth? 

The Tempest. 

I was all ear, 

And took in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of death. 

Comus. 

Quentin had hardly reached his little cabin, in order to 
make some necessary changes in his dress, when his worthy 
relative required to know the full particulars of all that had 
befallen him at the hunt. 

The youth, who could not help thinking that his uncle’s 
hand was probably more powerful than his understanding, 
took care, in his reply, to leave the King in full possession of 
the victory which he had seemed desirous to appropriate. Le 
Balafre’s reply was a boast of how much better he himself 
would have behaved in the like circumstances, and it was 
mixed with a gentle censure of Kis nephew’s slackness, in not 
making in to the King’s assistance, when he might be in immi¬ 
nent peril. The youth had prudence, in answer, to abstain 
from all farther vindication of his own conduct, except that, 
according to the rules of woodcraft, he held it ungentle to 
interfere with the game attacked by another hunter, unless he 
was specially called upon for his assistance. This discussion 
was scarcely ended, when occasion was afforded Quentin to 
congratulate himself for observing some reserve towards his 
kinsman. A low tap at the door announced a visitor; it was 
presently opened, and Oliver Daln, or Mauvals, or Diable, 
for by all these names he was known, entered the apartment. 

This able but most unprincipled man has been already 


160 



161 


Quentin Durward 

described, in so far as his exterior is concerned. The aptest 
resemblance of his motions and manners might perhaps be to 
those of the domestic cat,, which, while couching in seeming 
slumber, or gliding through the apartment with slow, stealthy, 
and timid steps, is now engaged in watching the hole of some 
unfortunate mouse, now in rubbing herself with apparent con¬ 
fidence and fondness against those by whom she desires to be 
caressed, and, presently after, is flying upon her prey, or 
scratching, perhaps, the very object of her former cajolements. 

He entered with stooping shoulders, a humble and modest 
look, and threw such a degree of civility into his address to the 
Seignior Balafre that no one, who saw the interview, could 
have avoided concluding that he came to ask a boon of the 
Scottish Archer. He congratulated Lesly on the excellent con¬ 
duct of his young kinsman in the chase that day, which, he 
observed, had attracted the King’s particular attention. He 
here paused for a reply; and with his eyes fixed on the ground, 
save just when once or twice they stole upwards to take a side 
glance at Quentin, he heard Balafre observe, “That his 
Majesty had been unlucky in not having himself by his side 
instead of his nephew, as he would questionless have made in 
and speared the brute, a matter which he understood Quentin 
had left upon his Majesty’s royal hands, so far as he could 
learn the story. But it will be a lesson to his Majesty,” he 
said, “wTile he lives, to mount a man of my inches on a better 
horse; for how could my great hill of a Flemish dray-horse 
keep up with his Majesty’s Norman runner? I am sure I 
spurred till his sides were furrowed. It is ill considered,' 
Master Oliver, and you must represent it to his Majesty.” 

Master Oliver only replied to this observation by turning 
towards the bold bluff speaker one of those slow, dubious 
glances which, accompanied by a slight motion of the hand 
and a gentle depression of the head to one side, may be eittier 
interpreted as a mute assent to what is said or as a cautious 
deprecation of farther prosecution of the subject. It was a 
keener, more scrutinising glance which he bent on the youth. 





162 


Quentix Durward ^ 

as he said, with an ambiguous smile, “So, young man, is it the | 
wont of Scotland to suffer your princes to be endangered for i 
the lack of aid, in such emergencies as this of today?” | 

“It is our custom,” answered Quentin,, determined to ; 
throw no farther light on the subject, “not to encumber them 
with assistance in honourable pastimes, when they can aid i 
themselves without it. We hold that a prince in a hunting- j 
held must take his chance with others, and that he comes there 
for the very purpose. What were woodcraft without fatigue 
and without danger?” 

“You hear the silly boy,” said his uncle; “that is always 
the way with him: he hath an answer or a reason ready to I 
be rendered to every one. I wonder whence he hath caught i 
the gift; I never could give iv reason for anything I have ever : 
done in my life, except for eating when I was a-hungry, j 
calling the muster-roll, and such points of duty as the like.” 

“And pray, worthy seignior,” said the royal tonsor, look¬ 
ing at him from under his eyelids, “what might your reason 
be for calling the muster-roll on such occasions?” 

“Because the captain commanded me,” said Le Balafre. 
“By St. Giles, I know no other reason! If he had commanded 
Tyrie or Cunningham, they must have done the same.” 

“A most military final cause!” said Oliver. “But, Seig- ! 
nior Le Balafre, you will be glad, doubtless, to learn that his j 
Majesty is so far from being displeased with your nephew’s | 
conduct, that he hath selected him to execute a piece of duty j 
this afternoon.” , 

“Selected him?'' said Balafre, in great surprise. “Selected . 
me, I suppose you mean?” 

“I mean precisely as I speak,” replied the barber, in a mild 
but decided tone: “the King hath a commission with which to ! 
entrust your nephew.” | 

“Why, wherefore, and for what reason?” said Balafre. | 
“Why doth he choose the boy, and not me?” 

“I can go*" no farther back than your own ultimate cause, ; 
Seignior Le Balafresuch are his Majesty’s commands. But,” j 







163 


Quentin Durward 

said he, “if I might use the presumption to form a conjecture, 
it may be his Majesty hath work to do fitter for a youth like 
your nephew than for an experienced warrior like yourself. 
Seignior Balafre. Wherefore, young gentleman, get your 
weapons and follow me. Bring with you a harquebuss, for 
you are to mount sentinel.” 

“Sentinel!” said the uncle; “are 50 U sure j’ou are right, 
Master Oliver? The inner guards of the castle have ever 
been mounted by those only who have, like me, served twelve 
3'ears in our honourable body.” 

“I am quite certain of his Majesty’s pleasure,” said Oliver,, 

! “and must no longer delay executing it.” 

“But,” said Le Balafre, “my nephew is not even a free 
' archer, being only an esquire^ serving under my lance.” 

“Pardon me,” answered Oliver, “the King sent for the 
register not half an hour since, and enrolled him among the 
Guard. Have the goodness to assist to put your nephew in 
order for the service.” 

Balafre, who had no ill-nature, or even much jealousy, in 
his disposition, hastily set about adjusting his nephew’s dress, 
and giving him directions for his conduct under arms, but was 
unable to refrain from larding them with interjections of 
surprise at such luck chancing to fall upon the 3^oung man so 
early. 

I “It had never taken place before in the Scottish Guard,” 
he said, “not even in his own instance. But doubtless his 
service must be to mount guard over the popinjays and Indian 
peacocks which the Venetian ambassador had lately presented 
to the King—it could be nothing else; and such duty being 
only fit for a beardless boy (here he twirled his own grim 
mustachios), he was glad the lot had fallen on his fair 
nephew.” 

^Esquire. The word comes through the old French escuyer, from the Latin 
scutiger, shieldbearer. The relations between knight and squire while formal 
were multifarious and intimate. Although only a servant, the squire was in most 
cases himself in training for knighthood, and this period of service was a part of 
his novitiate. For a pleasant portraiture of the squire, see Chaucer’s Pro/ogwc io 
the Canterbury Tales ll. 79-100. 




164 Quentin Durward 

Quick and sharp of wit, as well as ardent in fancy, Quen¬ 
tin saw visions of higher importance in this early summons to 
the royal presence, and his heart beat high at the anticipation 
of rising into speedy distinction. He determined carefully to 
watch the manners and language of his conductor, which he 
suspected must, in some cases at least, be interpreted by con¬ 
traries, as soothsayers are said to discover the interpretation 
of dreams. He could not but hug himself on having observed 
strict secrecy on the events of the chase, and then formed a 
resolution which, for so young a person, had much prudence 
in it, that, while he breathed the air of this secluded and 
mysterious court, he would keep his thoughts locked in his 
bosom, and his tongue under the most careful regulation. 

His equipment was soon complete, and with his harquebuss 
on his shoulder (for though they retained the name of archers, 
the Scottish Guard very early substituted firearms for the long 
bow, in the use of which their nation never excelled), he fol¬ 
lowed Master Oliver out of the barrack. 

His uncle looked long after him with a countenance in which 
wonder was blended with curiosity; and though neither envy 
or the malignant feelings which it engenders entered into his 
honest meditation, there was yet a sense of wounded or 
diminished self-importance which mingled with the pleasure 
excited by his nephew’s favourable commencement of service. 

He shook his head gravely, opened a privy cupboard, took 
out a large bottrine of stout old wine,, shook it to examine 
how low the contents had ebbed, filled and drank a hearty 
cup; then took his seat, half-reclining, on the great oaken 
settle, and having once again slowly shaken his head, received 
so much apparent benefit from the oscillation, that, like the 
toy called a mandarin, he continued the motion until he 
dropped into a slumber, from which he was first roused by the 
signal to dinner. 

When Quentin Durward left his uncle to these sublime 
meditations, he followed his conductor. Master Oliver, who, 
without crossing any of the principal courts, led him partly 




Quentin Durward 165 

through private passages exposed to the open air, but chiefly 
through a maze of stairs, vaults, and galleries, communicating 
with each other by secret doors and at unexpected points, into 
a large and spacious latticed gallery, which, from its breadth, 
might have been almost termed a hall, hung with tapestry 
more ancient than beautiful, and with a very few of the hard, 
cold, ghastly-looking pictures belonging to the first dawn of 
the arts, which preceded their splendid sunrise. These were 
designed to represent the paladins of Charlemagne, who made 
such a distinguished figure in the romantic history of France; 
and as the gigantic form of the celebrated Orlando consti¬ 
tuted the most prominent figure, the apartment acquired from 
him the title of Roland’s Hall, or Roland’s Gallery.^ 

“You will keep watch here,” said Oliver, in a low whisper, 
as if the hard delineations of monarchs and .warriors around 
could have been offended at the elevation of his voice, or as if 
he had feared to awaken the echoes that lurked among the 
groined vaults and Gothic drop-work on the ceiling of this 
huge and dreary apartment. 

“What are the orders and signs of my watch ?” answered 
Quentin, in the same suppressed tone. 

“Is your harquebuss loaded?” replied Oliver, without 
answering his query. 

“That,” answered Quentin, “is soon done”; and pro¬ 
ceeded to charge his weapon, and to light the slow-match, by 
which when necessary it was discharged, at the embers of a 
wood fire, which was expiring in the huge hall chimney—a 
chimney itself so large that it might have been called a Gothic 
closet or chapel appertaining to the hall. 

When this was performed, Oliver told him that he was 
ignorant of one of the high privileges of his own corps, which 
only received orders from the King in person, or the High 
Constable of France, in lieu of their own officers. “You are 
i placed here by his Majesty’s command, young man,” added 
[ Oliver, “and you will not be long here without knowing 

i ^Roland’s Gatiery. See Note 12 .—Louis XI and Charlemagne. 


166 Quentin Durward 

wherefore you are summoned. Meantime, your walk extends 
along this gallery. You are permitted to stand still while you ! 
list, but on no account to sit down or quit 3'our weapon. You 
are not to sing aloud or whistle upon any account; but you 
may, if you list, mutter some of the church’s prayers, or what 
else you list that has no offence in it, in a low voice. Fare¬ 
well, and keep good watch.” 

“Good watch!” thought the youthful soldier, as his guide 
stole away from him with that noiseless, gliding step which 
was peculiar to him, and vanished through a side door behind 
the arras—“good watch! but upon whom, and against whom? 
for what, save bats or rats, are there here to contend with, 
unless these grim old representatives of humanity should start 
into life for the disturbance of my guard? Well, it is my 
duty, I suppose, and I must perform it.” 

With the vigorous purpose of discharging his duty, even to 
the very rigour, he tried to while away the time with some of 
the pious hymns which he had learned in the convent in which ' 
he had found shelter after the death of his father—allowing ' 
in his own mind that, but for the change of a novice’s frock 
for the rich military dress which he now wore, his soldierly j 
walk in the royal gallery of France resembled greatly those of 
which he had tired excessively in the cloistered seclusion of 
Aberbrothock. 

Presently, as if to convince himself he now belonged not 
to the cell but to the world, he chanted to himself, but in sucli 
tone as not to exceed the license given to him, some of the 
ancient rude ballads which the old family harper had taught 
him, of the defeat of the Danes at Aberlemno and Forres, the | 
murder of King Duffus^ at Forfar, and other pithy sonnets and | 
lays, which appertained to the history of his distant native 
country, and particularly of the district to which he belonged. 
This wore away a considerable space of time, and it was now 
more than two hours past noon, when Quentin was reminded 
by his appetite that the good fathers of Aberbrothock, however 

^King Duffus. King Duffe was historically the great grandfather of Lady 
Macbeth; and the chronicle of his reign suppliad Shakspers with som« 
accessories of his tragedy Macbeth. 




167 


Quentin Durward 

strict in demanding his attendance upon the hours of devotion,, 
were no less punctual in summoning him to those of refection: 
whereas here, in the interior of a royal palace, after a morning 
spent in exercise and a noon exhausted in duty, no man seemed 
to consider it as a natural consequence that he must be impa¬ 
tient for his dinner. 

There are, however, charms in sweet sounds which can 
lull to rest even the natural feelings of impatience by which 
Quentin was now visited. At the opposite extremities of the 
long hall or gallery were two large doors, ornamented with 
heavy architraves, probably opening into different suites of 
apartments, to which the gallery served as a mediurn of 
mutual communication. As the sentinel directed his solitary 
walk betwixt these two entrances, which formed the boundary 
of his duty, he was startled by a strain of music, which was 
suddenly waked near one of those doors, and which, at least 
in his imagination, was a combination of the same lute and 
voice by which he had been enchanted on the preceding day. 
All the dreams of yesterday morning, so much weakened by 
the agitating circumstances which he had since undergone, 
again rose more vivid from their slumber, and, planted on the 
spot where his ear could most conveniently drink in the 
sounds., Quentin remained, with his harquebuss shouldered, 
his mouth half open, ear, eye, and soul directed to the spot, 
rather the picture of a sentinel than a living form—without 
any other idea than that of catching, if possible, each passing 
sound of the dulcet melody. 

These delightful sounds were but partially heard: they 
languished, lingered, ceased entirely and were from time to 
time renewed after uncertain intervals. But, besides that 
music, like beauty, is often most delightful, or at least most 
interesting to the imagination, when its charms are but par¬ 
tially displayed, and the imagination as left to fill up what is 
from distance but imperfectly detailed. Quentin had maUer 
enough to fill up his reverie during the intervals of fascination. 
He dould not doubt, from the report v#f his uncle’s comrades 


168 


Quentin Durward 

and the scene which had passed in the presence-chamber that 
morning, that the siren who thus delighted his ears was not, 
as he had profanely supposed, the daughter or kinswoman of a 
base cabaretier} but the same disguised and distressed countess 
for w’hose cause kings and princes were now about to buckle 
on armour and put lance in rest. A hundred wild dreams, 
such as romantic and adventurous youth readily nourished in 
a romantic and adventurous age, chased from his eyes the 
bodily presentment of the actual scene, and substituted their 
own bewildering delusions, when at once, and rudely, they 
were banished by a rough grasp laid upon his w^eapon, and a 
harsh voice which exclaimed, close to his ear, “Ha! Pasques- 
dieu, sir squire, methinks you keep sleepy ward here!” 

The voice was the tuneless, yet impressive and ironical, 
tone of Maitre Pierre, and Quentin, suddenly recalled to him¬ 
self, saw with shame and fear, that he had, in his reverie, 
permitted Louis himself—entering probably by some secret 
door, and gliding along by the wall or behind the tapestry— 
to approach him so nearly as almost to master his weapon. 

The first impulse of his surprise was to free his harquebuss 
by a violent exertion, which made the King stagger backward \ 
into the hall. His next apprehension was, that in obeying the 
animal instinct, as it may be termed, which prompts a brave 
man to resist an attempt to disarm him, he had aggravated, by 
a personal struggle with the King, the displeasure produced by 
the negligence with which he had performed his duty upon 
guard; and, under this impression, he recovered his harque¬ 
buss without almost knowing what he did, and, having again 
shouldered it, stood motionless before the monarch, whom he 
had reason to conclude he had mortally offended. 

Louis, whose tyrannical disposition was less founded on I 
natural ferocity or cruelty of temper than on cold-blooded 
policy and jealous suspicion, had, nevertheless., a share of that 
caustic severity which would have made him a despot in 
private conversation, and always seemed to enjoy the pain 


^Cabareiier. Keeper of a wme-shop. 





169 


Quentin Durward 

which he inflicted on occasions like the present. But he did 
not push his triumph far, and contented himself with saying—• 
“Thy service of the morning hath already overpaid some 
negligence in so young a soldier. Hast thou dined?” 

Quentin, who rather looked to be sent to the provost- 
marshal than greeted with such a compliment, answered 
humbly in the negative. 

“Poor lad,” said Louis, in a softer tone than he usually 
spoke in, “hunger hath made liim drowsy. I know thine 
appetite is a wolf,” he continued, “and I will save thee from 
one wild beast as thou didst me from another. Thou hast 
been prudent too in that matter, and I thank thee for it. 
Canst thou yet hold out an hour without food ?” 

“Four-and-twenty, sire,” replied Durward, “or I were no 
true Scot.” 

“I would not for another kingdom be the pasty which 
should encounter thee after such a vigil,” said the King; “but 
the question now is, not of thy dinner but of my own. I admit 
to my table this day, and in strict privacy, the Cardinal Balue 
and this Burgundian—this Count de Crevecoeur,, and some¬ 
thing may chance: the devil is most busy when foes meet on 
terms of, truce.” 

He stopped and remained silent, with a deep and gloomy 
look. As the King was in no haste to proceed, Quentin at 
length ventured to ask what his duty was to be in these 
circumstances. 

“To keep watch at the beauffet, with thy loaded weapon,” 
said Louis; “and if there is treason, to shoot the traitor dead.” 

“Treason, sire! and in this guarded castle!” exclaimed 
Durward. 

“You think it impossible,” said the King, not offended, it 
would seem, by his frankness; “but our history has shown that 
treason can creep into an auger-hole. Treason excluded^by 
guards! O thou silly boy! Quis custodiat ipsos custodes^— 
who shall exclude the treason of those very warders?” 

iQuts custodial ipsos custodes. Literally, “Who shall watch the watchmen 
themselves.” 


170 


Quentin Durward 

“Their Scottish honour,” answered Durward, boldly. 
“True—most right, thou pleasest me,” said the King, cheer¬ 
fully; “the Scottish honour was ever true., and I trust it 
accordingly. But treason!”—here he relapsed into his former 
gloomy mood, and traversed the apartment with unequal 
steps—“she sits at our feasts, she sparkles in our bowls, she 
wears the beard of our counsellors, the smiles of our courtiers, 
the crazy laugh of our jesters—above all, she lies hid under 
the friendly air of a reconciled enemy. Louis of Orleans 
trusted John of Burgundy: he was murdered in the Rue 
Barbette. John of Burgundy trusted the faction of Orleans: 
he was murdered on the bridge of Montereau. I will trust 
no one—no one. Hark yt ; I will keep my eye on that insolent 
count; ay, and on the churchman too, whom I hold not too 
faithful. When I say, ‘Ecosse, en avant’ ^ shoot Crevecoeur 
dead on the spot.” 

“It is my duty,” said Quentin, “your Majesty’s life being 
endangered.” 

“Certainly—I mean it no otherwise,” said the King. 
“What should I get by slaying this insolent soldier? Were it 

the Constable St. Paul indeed-” Here he paused, as if he 

thought he had said a word too much, but resumed, laughing— 
“There’s our brother-in-law, James of Scotland—your own 
James, Quentin—poniarded the Douglas" when on a hospit¬ 
able visit, within his own ro3^al castle of Skirling.” 

“Of Stirling,” said Quentin, “and so please your High¬ 
ness. It was a deed of which came little good.” 

“Stirling call 3^ou the castle?” said the King, overlooking 
the latter part of Quentin’s speech. “Well, let it be Stirling; 
the name is nothing to the purpose. ButJ meditate no injury 
to these men—none. It would serve me nothing. They may 
not purpose equally fair by me. I rely on thy harquebuss.” 

“I shall be prompt at the signal,” said Quentin; “but 


^Ecosse, en avant. Scotland, Tonvard! 
^Douglas. See Note 13 at end of the novel. 








Quentin Durward i7i 

You hesitate.” said the King. “Speak out; I give thee 
full leave. From such as thou art, hints iriRy be caught that 
are right valuable.” 

“I \vould only presume to say,” replied Quentin, “that 
your Majesty having occasion to distrust this Burgundian, I 
marvel that you suffer him to approach so near your person, 
and that in privacy.” 

“O content you, sir squire,” said the King. “There are 
some dangers which, when they are braved, disappear, and 
which yet., when there is an obvious and apparent dread of 
them displayed, become certain and inevitable. When I walk 
boldly up to a surly mastiff and caress him, it is ten to one I 
soothe him to good temper; if I show fear of him, he flies* on 
me and rends me. I will be thus far frank with thee. It con¬ 
cerns me nearly that this man returns not to his headlong 
master in a resentful humour. I run my risk, therefore. I 
have never shunned to expose my life for the w’eal of my 
kingdom. Follow me.” 

Louis led his young Life Guardsman, for whom he seemed 
to have taken a special favour, through the side door by which 
he had himself entered, saying, as he showed it him, “He who 
w^ould thrive at court must know the private wickets^ and 
concealed staircases—ay, and the traps and pitfalls of the 
palace, as well as the principal entrances, folding-doors, and 
portals.” 

After several turns and passages, the King entered a small 
vaulted room, where a table w^as prepared for dinner with 
three covers. The whole furniture and arrangements of the 
room were plain almost to meanness. A beauffet, or folding 
and movable cupboard, held a few pieces of gold and silver 
plate, and w'as the only article in the chamber which had, in 
the slightest degree, the appearance of royalty. Behind this 
cupboard, and completely hidden by it, was the post which 
Louis assigned to Quentin Durward; and after having ascer¬ 
tained, by going to different parts of the room, that he was 

^Wickets. Small doors in or near a larger door or gate, and intended for the 
admission of persons on foot. 


172 


Quentin Durward 

invisible from all quarters, he gave him his last charge— 
“Remember the word, ‘Ecosse, en avantf and so soon as ever 
I utter these sounds, throw down the screen—spare not for 
cup or goblet, and be sure thou take good aim at CreveccEur. 
If thy piece fail, cling to him, and use thy knife. Oliver and 
1 can deal with the cardinal.” 

Having thus spoken, he whistled aloud, and summoned 
into the apartment Oliver, who was premier valet of the 
chamber as well as barber, and who, in fact, performed all 
offices immediately connected with the King’s person, and who 
now appeared, attended by two old men, who were the only 
assistants or waiters at the royal table. So soon as the King 
had taken his place, the visitors were admitted; and Quentin, 
though himself unseen, was so situated as to remark all the 
particulars of the interview. 

The King welcomed his visitors with a degree of cordiality 
which Quentin had the utmost difficulty to reconcile with the 
directions which he had previously received, and the purpose 
for which he stood behind the beauffet with his deadly weapon 
in readiness. Not only did Louis appear totally free from 
apprehension of any kind, but one would have supposed that 
those visitors whom he had done the high honour to admit to 
his table were the very persons in whom he could most unre¬ 
servedly confide,, and whom he was most willing to honour. 
Nothing could be more dignified, and at the same time more 
courteous, than his demeanour. While all around him, 
including even his own dress, was far beneath the splendour 
which the petty princes of the kingdom displayed in their 
festivities, his own language and manners were those of a 
mighty sovereign in his most condescending mood. Quentin 
was tempted to suppose either that the whole of his previous 
conversation with Louis had been a dream, or that the dutiful 
demeanour of the cardinal, and the frank, open, and gallant 
bearing of the Burgundian noble, had entirely erased the 
King’s suspicion. , 

But whilst the guests, in obedience to the King, were in 




173 


Quentin Durward 

the act of placing themselves at the table, his Majesty darted 
one keen glance on them, and then instantly directed his look 
to Quentin’s post. This was done in an instant; but the 
glance conveyed so much doubt and hatred towards his guests, 
such a peremptory injunction on Quentin to be watchful in 
attendance and prompt in execution, that no room was left for 
doubting that the sentiments of Louis continued unaltered, 
and his apprehensions unabated. He was, therefore, more 
than ever astonished at the deep veil under which that mon¬ 
arch was able to conceal the movements of his jealous 
disposition. 

Appearing to have entirely forgotten the language which 
Crevecoeur had held towards him in the face of his court, the 
King conversed with him of old times, of events which had 
occurred during his own exile in the territories of Burgundy, 
and inquired respecting all the nobles with whom he had been 
then familiar, as if that period had indeed been the happiest of 
his life, and as if he retained towards all who had contributed 
to soften the term of his exile the kindest and most grateful 
sentiments. 

“To an ambassador of another nation,” he said, “I would 
have thrown something of state into our reception; but to an 
old friend, who often shared my board at the Castle of 
Genappes,^ I wished to show myself, as I love best to live, old 
Louis of Valois, as simple and plain as any of his Parisian 
badauds.~ But I directed them to make some better cheer than 
ordinary for 5^ou, sir count, for I know your Burgundian 
proverb, ‘Mieux vault bon repas qiie bel habid^; and there¬ 
fore I bid them have some care of our table. For our wine, 
you know well it is the subject of an old emulation betwixt 
France and Burgundy, which we will presently reconcile; 

T^Genappes. During his residence in Burgundy, in his father's lifetime, 
Genappes was the usual abode of Louis. This period of exile is often alluded to 
in the novel. 

^Badatids. A term applied to the lower class of citizens in Paris, as the term 
Cockney is in London. 

^Mieux vault bon repas que bel habit. A good meal is better than a fine coat. 


174 


Quentin Durward 

for I will drink to you in Burgundy, and you, sir count, shall 
pledge me in champagne. Here, Oliver, let me have a cup of i 
vin d'Auxerre'; and he hummed gaily a song then well 
known— 

“ Juxerre est la boisson des rols} 

Here, sir count, I drink to the health of the noble Duke of 
Burgundy, our kind and loving cousin. Oliver, replenish yon 
golden cup with vin de Rheims, and give it to the count on ' , 
your knee; he represents our loving brother. My lord cardi¬ 
nal, we will ourselves fill your cup.” 

“You have already, sire, even to overflowing,” said the 
cardinal, with the lowly mien of a favourite towards an indul¬ 
gent master 

“Because we know that your Eminence can carry it with a 
steady hand,” said Louis. “But which side do you espouse 
in the great controversy—Sillery or Auxerre—Frpce or 
Burgundy?” 

“I will stand neutral, sire,” said the cardinal, “and 
replenish my cup with Auvernat.” 

“A neutral has a perilous part to sustain,” said the King; 
but as he observed the cardinal colour somewhat, he glided 
from the subject, and added, “But you prefer the Auvernat, 
because it is so noble a wine it endures not water. You, sir 
count, hesitate to empty your cup. I trust you have found no 
national bitterness at the bottom.” 

“I would, sir,” said the Count of Crevecoeur, “that all | 
national quarrels could be as pleasantly ended as the rivalry i 
betwixt our vineyards.” 

“With time, sir count,” answered the King—“with time— | 

such time as you have taken to your draught of champagne. : 

And now that it is finished, favour me by putting the goblet | 

in your bosom, and keeping it as a pledge of our regard. It is 1 
not to every one that we would part with it. It belonged of ' 
3'ore to that terror of France, Henry V. of England, and was 
taken when Rouen was reduced, and those islanders expelled 


^Auxerre est la boisson des rois. Auxerre is the drink of kings. 



Quentin Durward 


175 


from Normandy by the joint arms of France and Burgundy. 
It cannot be better bestowed than on a noble and valiant 
Burgundian, who well knows that on the union of these two 
nations depends the continuance of the freedom of the Conti¬ 
nent from the English yoke.” 

The count made a suitable answer, and Louis gave 
unrestrained way to the satirical gaiety of disposition which 
sometimes enlivened the darker shades of his character. Lead¬ 
ing, of course, the conversation, his remarks,, always shrewd 
and caustic, and often actually witty, were seldom good- 
natured, and the anecdotes with which he illustrated them 
were often more humourous than delicate; but in no one 
word, syllable, or letter did he betray the state of mind of one 
who, apprehensive of assassination, hath in his apartment an 
armed soldier, with his piece loaded, in order to prevent or 
anticipate an attack on his person. 

The Count of Crevecoeur gave frankly into the King’s 
humour;^ while the smooth churchman laughed at every jest, 
and enhanced every ludicrous idea, without exhibiting any 
shame at expressions which made the rustic young Scot blush 
even in his place of concealment. In about an hour and a 
half the tables were drawn; and the King, taking courteous 
leave of his guests, gave the signal that it was his desire to be 
alone. 

So soon as all, even Oliver, had retired, he called Quentin 
from his place of concealment; but with a voice so faint, that 
the youth could scarce believe it to be the same which had so 
lately given animation to the jest and zest to the tale. As he 
approached, he saw an equal change in his countenance. The 
light of assumed vivacity had left the King’s eyes, the smile 
had deserted his face, and he exhibited all the fatigue of a 
celebrated actor, when he has finished the exhausting repre- 

^The King's humour. See Note 14 at end of the novel. 


176 


Quentin Durward 


sentation of some favourite character, in which, while upon 
the stage, he had displayed the utmost vivacity. 

“Thy watch is not yet over,” said he to Quentin. “Refresh 
thyself for an instant—yonder table affords the means—I will 
then instruct thee in thy farther duty. Meanwhile, it is il) 
talking between a full man and a fasting.” 

He threw himself back on his seat, covered his brow with 
his hand, and was silent. 




CHAPTER XI. 


THE HALL OF ROLAND 


Painters show Cupid blind. Hath Hymen ^ eyes? 

Or is his sight warp’d by those spectacles 
Which parents, guardians, and advisers lend him. 

That he may look through them on lands and mansions. 

On jewels, gold, and all such rich dotations,- 
And see their value ten times magnified? 

Methinks ’twill brook a question. 

The Miseries of Enforced Marriage. 


Louis the XL of France, though the sovereign in Europe 
who was fondest and most jealous of power,, desired only its 
substantial enjoyment; and though he knew well enough, and 
at times exacted strictly, the observances due to his rank, was 
in general singularly careless of show. 

In a prince of sounder moral qualities, the familiarity with 
which he invited subjects to his board—nay, occasionally sat 
at theirs—must have been highly popular; and even such as 
ne was, the King’s homeliness of manners atoned for many of 
his vices with that class of his subjects who were not particu¬ 
larly exposed to the consequences of his suspicion and jealousy. 
The tiers etatf or commons, of France, who rose to rnore 
opulence and consequence under the reign of this sagacious 
prince, respected his person, though they loved him not; and 
it was resting on their support that he was enabled to make 
his party good against the hatred of the nohles, who conceived 
that he diminished the honour of the French crown, and 
obscured their own splendid privileges, by that very neglect of 
form which gratified the citizens and commons. 

1 nymen. The deity who presides over marriage rites. 

'^Potations. The dowry or marriage portion. . o • i 

^Tiers Slat. The third estate. The Three Estates comprised the Lords Spiritual, 
the Lords Temporal, and the Commons. 


177 


178 


Quentin Durvvard 


With patience, which most other princes would have con¬ 
sidered as degrading, and not without a sense of amusement, 
the monarch of France waited till his Life Guardsman had 
satisfied the keenness of a youthful appetite. It may be 
supposed, however, that Quentin had too much sense and j 
prudence to put the royal patience to a long or tedious proof; ; 

and indeed he was repeatedly desirous to break off his repast * 
ere Louis would permit him. “I see it in thine eye,” he said, 
good-naturedly, “that thy courage is not half abated. Go on— 
God and St. DLiis!—charge again. I tell thee that meat and 
mass (crossing himself) never hindered the work of a good 
Christian man. Take a cup of wine; but mind thou be 
cautious of the wine-pot; it is the vice of thy countrymen as 
well as of the English, who, lacking that folly, are the choicest 
soldiers ever wore armour. And now wash speedily; forget 
not thy benedicite} and follow me.” 

Quentin obeyed, and, conducted hy a different, but as 
maze-like an approach as he had formerly passed, he followed 
Louis into the Hall of Roland. 

“Take notice,” said the King, imperatively, “thou hast 
never left this post—let that be thine answer to thy kinsman 
and comrades; and, hark thee, to bind the recollection on thy 
memory, I give thee this gold chain (flinging on his arm one 
of considerable value). If I go not brave myself, those whom 
I trust have ever the means to ruffle it with the best. But, 
when such chains as these bind not the tongue from wagging 
too freely, my gossip, L’Hermite, hath an amulet for the 
throat, which never fails to work a certain cure. . And now 
attend. No man, save Oliver or I myself, enters here this 
evening; but ladies will come hither, perhaps from the one 
extremity of the hall, perhaps from the other, perhaps one 
from each. You may answer if they address you, but, being 
on duty, your answer must be brief; and you must neither 
address them in your turn nor engage in any prolonged dis-- 
course. But harken to what they say. Thine ears, as'well as 

^Benedicite. The giving thanks, after the meal. 




179 


Quentin Durward 

th}' hands, are mine: I have bought thee, body and soul. 
Therefore, if thou hearest aught of their conversation, thou 
must retain it in memory until it is communicated to me, and 
then forget it. And, now 1 think better on it, it will be 
best that thou pass for a Scottish recruit, who hath come 
straight down from his mountains, and hath not yet acquired 
our most Christian language. Right. So, if they speak to 
thee, thou wilt not answer; this will free you from embarrass¬ 
ment, and lead them to converse without regard to your 
presence. You understand me. Farewell. Be wary, and 
thou hast a friend.” 

The King had scarce spoken these words ere he disap¬ 
peared behind the arras,^ leaving Quentin to meditate on what 
he Pad seen and heard. The youth was in one of those situa¬ 
tions from which it is pleasanter to look forward than to look 
back; for the reflection that he had been planted like a marks¬ 
man in a thicket who watches for a stag, to take the life of the 
noble Count of Crevecoeur, had in it nothing ennobling. It 
was very true, that the King’s measures seemed on this occa¬ 
sion merely cautionary and defensive; but how did the youth 
know but he might be soon commanded on some offensive 
operation of the same kind ? This would be an unpleasant 
crisis, since it was plain, from the character of his master, 
that there would be destruction in refusing, while his honour 
told him there would be disgrace in complying. He turned 
his thoughts from this subject of reflection, with the sage 
consolation so often adopted by youth when prospective dan¬ 
gers intrude themselves on their mind, that it was time enough 
to think what was to be done when the emergence actually 
arrived, and that sufficient for the day was the evil thereof. 

Quentin made use of this sedative reflection the more 
easily, that the last commands of the ‘King had given him 
something more agreeable to think of than his own condition. 
The lady of the lute was certainly one of those to whom his 
attention was to be dedicated; and well in his mind did he 


^Arras. Tapestry used for decorating the walls. 


180 


Quentin Durward 

promise to obej^ one part of the King’s mandate, and listen 
with diligence to every word that might drop from her lips, 
that he might know if the magic of her conversation equalled 
that of her music. But with as much sincerity did he swear 
to himself, that no part of her discourse should he reported hy 
him to the King which might affect the fair speaker otherwise 
than favourably. 

Meantime, there was no fear of his again slumbering on 
his post. Each passing breath of wind which, finding its wav 
through the open lattice, waved the old arras, sounded like the 
approach of the fair object of his expectation. He felt, in 
short, all that mysterious anxiety and eagerness of expectation 
which is always a companion of love, and sometimes hath a 
considerable share in creating it. 

At length, a door actually creaked and jingled, for the 
doors even of palaces did not in the 15 th century turn on 
their hinges so noiseless as ours; but, alas! it was not at 
that end of the hall from which the lute had been heard. It 
opened, however, and a female figure entered, followed by 
two others, whom she directed hy a sign to remain without, 
while she herself came forward into the hall. By her imper¬ 
fect and unequal gait, which showed to peculiar disadvantage 
as she traversed this long gallery, Quentin at once recognized 
the Princess Joan, and, with the respect which became his 
situation., drew himself up in a fitting attitude of silent vigi¬ 
lance, and lowered his weapon to her as she passed. She 
acknowledged the courtesy by a gracious inclination of her 
head, and he had an opportunity of seeing her countenance 
more distinctly than he had in the morning. 

There was little in the features of this ill-fated princess to 
atone for the misfortune of her shape and gait. Her face was, 
indeed, by no means disagreeable in itself, though destitute of 
beauty; and there was a meek expression of suffering patience 
in her large blue eyes, which were commonly fixed upon the 
ground. But, besides that she was extremely pallid in 
complexion, her skin had the yellowish, discoloured tinge 






Quentix Durward ISI 

which accompanies habitual bad health; and though her teeth 
were white and regular, her lips were thin and pale. The 
Princess had a profusion of flaxen hair, but it was so light- 
coloured as to be almost of a bluish tinge; and her tirewoman, 
who doubtless considered the luxuriance of her mistress’s 
tresses as a beauty, had not greatly improved matters by 
arranging them in curls around her pale countenance, to 
which they added ap expression almost corpse-like and 
unearthly. To make matters still worse, she had chosen a 
vest or cymar of a pale green silk, which gave her, on the 
whole, a ghastly and even spectral appearance. 

While Quentin followed this singular apparition with 
eyes in which curiosity was blended with compassion, for 
every look and motion of the Princess seemed to call for the 
latter feeling, two ladies entered from the upper end of the 
apartment. 

One of these was the young person who, upon Louis’s sum¬ 
mons, had served him with fruit, while Quentin made his 
memorable breakfast at the Fleur-de-Lys. Invested now with 
all the mysterious dignity belonging to the nymph of the veil 
and lute, and proved, besides, at least in Quentin’s estimation, 
to be the high-born heiress of a rich earldom, her beauty 
made ten times the impression upon him which it had done 
when he beheld in her one whom he deemed the daughter of 
a paltry innkeeper, in attendance upon a rich and humourous 
old burgher. He now wondered what fascination could ever 
liave concealed from him her real character. Yet her dress 
was nearly as simple as before, being a suit of deep mourning, 
without any ornaments. Her head-dress was but a veil of 
crape, which was entirely thrown back, so as to leave her face 
uncovered; and it was only Quentin’s knowledge of her 
actual rank which gave in his estimation new elegance to her 
beautiful shape, a dignity to her step which had before 
remained unnoticed, and to her regular features, brilliant 
complexion, and dazzling eyes an air of conscious nobleness 
that enhanced their beauty. 


182 


Quentin Durward 

Had death been the penalty, Durward must needs have 
rendered to this beauty and her companion the same homage 
which he had just paid to the royalty of the Princess. They 
received it as those who were accustomed to the deference of 
inferiors, and returned it with courtesy; but he thought— 
perhaps it was but a youthful vision—that the young lady 
coloured slightly,, kept her eyes on the ground, and seemed 
embarrassed, though in a trifling degree, as she returned his 
military salutation. This must have been owing to her recol¬ 
lection of the audacious stranger in the neighbouring, turret at 
the Fleur-de-Lys; but did that discomposure express dis¬ 
pleasure? This question he had no means to determine. 

The companion of the youthful countess, dressed like her¬ 
self simply, and in deep mourning, was at the age when 
women are apt to cling most closely to that reputation for 
beauty which had for years been diminishing. She had still 
remains enough to show what the power of her charms must 
once have been, and remembering past triumphs, it was evident 
from her manner that she had not relinquished the pretensions 
to future conquests. She was tall and graceful, though some¬ 
what haughty in her deportment, and returned the salute of 
Quentin with a smile of gracious condescension, whispering, 
the next instant, something into her companion’s ear, who 
turned towards the soldier, as if to comply with some hint 
from the elder lady, but answered, nevertheless, without rais¬ 
ing her eyes. Quentin could not help suspecting that the 
observation called on the 5^oung lady to notice his own good 
mien ; and he was (I do not know^ why) pleased with the idea 
that the party referred to did not choose to look at him in 
order to verify with her own e5'es the truth of the observation. 
Probably he thought there was already a sort of mysterious 
connexion beginning to exist between them, which gave 
importance to the slightest trifle. 

This reflection was momentar)^, for he was instantly 
wrapped up in attention to the meeting of the Princess Joan 
with these stranger ladies. She had stood still upon their 


183 


Quentin Durward 

entrance, in order to receive them, conscious, perhaps, that 
motion did not become her well; and as she was somewhat 
embarrassed in receiving and repaying their compliments, the 
elder stranger. Ignorant of the rank of the party whom she 
addressed, was led to pay her salutation in a manner rather 
as if she conferred than received an honour through the 
interview. 

“I rejoice, madam,” she said, with a smile, which was 
meant to express condescension at once and encouragement, 
“that we are at length permitted the society of such a respect¬ 
able person of our own sex as you appear to be. I must say 
that my niece and I have had but little for which to thank the 
hospitality of King Louis. Nay, niece, never pluck my sleeve. 
I am sure I read in the looks of this young lady sympathy for 
our situation. Since we came hither, fair madam, we have 
been used little better than mere prisoners; and after a thou¬ 
sand invitations to throw our cause and our persons under the 
protection of France, the Most Christian King has afforded 
us at first but a base inn for our residence, and now a corner 
of this moth-eaten palace, out of which we are only permitted 
to creep towards sunset., as if we were bats or owls, whose 
appearance in the sunshine is to be held matter of ill omen. 

“I am sorry,” said the Princess, faltering with the awk¬ 
ward embarrassment of the interview, “that we have been 
unable, hitherto, to receive you according to your deserts. 
Your niece, I trust, is better satisfied?” 

“Much—much better than I can express,” answered the 
youthful countess. “I sought but safety, and I have found 
solitude and secrecy besides. The seclusion of our former 
residence, and the still greater solitude of that now assigned 
to us, augment, in my eye, the favour which the King vouch¬ 
safed to us unfortunate fugitives.” 

“Silence, my silly cousin,” said the elder lady, “and let us 
speak according to our conscience, since at last we are alone 
with one of our own sex—I say alone, for that handsome 
young soldier is a mere statue, since he seems not to have the 

{ 



184 Quentin Durward 

use of his limbs, and I am given to understand he wants that 
of his tongue, at least in civilised language—I say, since no 
one but this lady can understand us, I must own there is 
nothing I have regretted equal to taking this French journey. 
I looked for a splendid reception, tournaments, carousals, 
pageants and festivals; and instead of which, all has been 
seclusion and obscurity! and the best society whom the King 
introduced to us was a Bohemian vagabond by whose agency 
he directed us to correspond with our friends in Flanders. 
Perhaps,” said the lady, “it is his politic intention to mew^ us 
up here until our lives’ end, that he may seize on our estates, 
after the extinction of the ancient house of Croye. The Duke 
of Burgundy was not so cruel: he offered my niece a husband, 
though he was a bad one.” 

“I should have thought the veil preferable to an evil hus¬ 
band,” said the Princess, with difficulty finding opportunity to 
interpose a word. 

“One would at least wish to have the choice, madam,” 
replied the voluble dame. “It is. Heaven knows, on account of 
my niece that I speak; for myself, I have long laid aside thoughts 
of changing my condition. I see you smile, but, by my halidome, 
it is true; yet that is no excuse for the King, whose con¬ 
duct like his person, hath more resemblance to that of old 
Michaud, the money-changer of Ghent, than to the successor 
of Charlemagne.” 

“Hold!” said the Princess, with some asperity in her tone; 
“remember you speak of my father.” 

“Of your father!” replied the Burgundian lady in surprise. 

“Of my father,” repeated the Princess, with dignity. “I 
am Joan of France. But fear not, madam,” she continued, 
in the gentle accent which was natural to her, “you designed 
no offence, and I have taken none. Command my influence 
to render your exile and that of this interesting young person 

^Tomew us up. To shut us up. Falcons and hawks, used in hunting, were, 
in moulting-time, cooped up in cages called mews. Hence the phrase here used, 
as also our word immue. * 


185 


Quentin Durward 

more supportable. Alas! it is but little I have in my power; 
but it is willingly offered.” 

Deep and submissive was the reverence with which the 
Countess Hameline de Croye, ,so was the elder lady called, 
received the obliging offer of the Princess’s protection. She 
had been long the inhabitant of courts, was mistress of the 
manners which are there acquired, and held firmly the estab¬ 
lished rule of courtiers of all ages, who, although their usual 
private conversation turns upon the vices and follies of their 
patrons, and on the injuries and neglect which they themselves 
have sustained, never suffer such hints to drop from them in 
the presence of the sovereign or those of his family. The lady 
was, therefore, scandalised to the last degree at the mistake 
which had induced her to speak so indecorously in presence of 
the daughter of Louis. She would have exhausted herself in 
expressing regret and making apologies, had she not been put 
to silence and restored to equanimity by the Princess, who 
requested, in the most gentle manner, yet which, from a 
daughter of France, had the weight of a command, that no 
more might be said in the way either of excuse or of 
explanation. 

The Princess Joan then took her own chair with a dignity 
which became her, and compelled the two strangers to sit, one 
on either hand, to which the younger consented^ with 
unfeigned and respectful diffidence, and the elder with an 
affectation of deep humility and deference, which was intended 
for such. They spoke together, but in such a low tone that the 
sentinel could not overhear their discourse, and only remarked 
that the Princess seemed to bestow much of her regard on 
the younger and more interesting lady; and that the Countess 
Hameline, though speaking a great deal more, attracted less 
of the Princess’s attention by her full flow of conversation and 
compliment than did her kinswoman by her brief and modest 
replies to what was addressed to her. 

The conversation of the ladies had not lasted a quarter of 
an hour, when the door at the lower end of the hall opened, 



186 Quentin Durward 

and a man entered shrouded in a riding-cloak. Mindful of 
the King’s injunction,, and determined not to be a second time 
caught slumbering, Quentin instantly moved towards the 
intruder, and, interposing between him and the ladies, 
requested him to retire instantly. 

“By whose command?” said the stranger in a tone of con¬ 
temptuous surprise. 

“By that of the King,” said Quentin firmly, “which I am 
placed here to enforce.” 

“Not against Louis of Orleans,” said the duke, dropping 
his cloak. 

The young man hesitated a moment; but how enforce 
his orders against the first prince of the blood, about to be 
allied, as the report now generally went, with the King’s own 
family? 

“Your Highness,” he said, “is too great that your pleasure 
should be withstood by me. I trust your Highness will bear 
me witness that I have done the duty of my post, so far as 
your will permitted.” 

“Go to—you shall have no blame, young soldier,” said 
Orleans; and passing forward, paid his compliments to the 
Princess with that air of constraint which always marked his 
courtesy when addressing her. 

“He had been dining,” he said, “with Dunois, and under¬ 
standing there was society in Roland’s Gallery, he had ven¬ 
tured on the freedom of adding one to the number.” 

The colour which mounted into the pale cheek of the 
unfortunate Joan, and which for the moment spread some¬ 
thing of beauty over her features, evinced that this addition 
to the company was anything but indifferent to her. She 
hastened to present the Prince to the two Ladies of Croye, 
who received him with the respect due to his eminent rank; 
and the Princess, pointing to a chair, requested him to join 
their conversation party. 

The duke declined the freedom of assuming a seat in such 
society; but taking a cushion from one of the settles, he laid it 


187 


Quentin Durward 

at the feet of the beautiful young Countess of Croye, and so 
seated himself that, without appearing to neglect the Princess, 
he was enabled to bestow the greater share of his attention on 
her lovely neighbour. 

At first it seemed as if this arrangement rather pleased than 
offended his destined bride. She encouraged the duke in his 
gallantries towards the fair stranger and seemed to regard 
them as complimentary to herself. But the Duke of Orleans, 
though accustomed to subject his mind to the stern yoke of his 
uncle when in the King’s presence, had enough of princely 
nature to induce him to follow his own inclinations whenever 
that restraint was withdrawn; and his high rank giving him a 
right to overstep the ordinary ceremonies and advance at once 
to familiarity, his praises of the Countess Isabelle’s beauty 
became so energetic, and flowed with such unrestrained free¬ 
dom, owing perhaps to his having drunk a little more wine 
than usual, for Dunois was no enemy to the worship of 
Bacchus, that at length he seemed almost impassioned, and the 
presence of the Princess appeared wellnigh forgotten. 

The tone of compliment which he indulged was grateful 
only to one individual in the circle; for the Countess Hame- 
line already anticipated the dignity of an alliance with the 
first prince of the blood, by means of her whose birth, beauty, 
and large possessions rendered such an ambitious consumma¬ 
tion by no means impossible, even in the eyes of a less sanguine 
projector, could the views of Louis XL have been left out of 
the calculation of chances. The younger countess listened to 
the duke’s gallantries with anxiety and embarrassment, and 
ever and anon turned an entreating look towards the Princess^ 
as if requesting her to come to her relief. But the wounded 
feelings and the timidity of Joan of France rendered her 
incapable of an effort to make the conversation more general ; 
and at length, excepting a few interjectional civilities of the 
Lady Hameline, it was maintained almost exclusively by the 
duke himself, though at the expense of the younger Countess 



188 Quentin Durward 

of Croye, whose beauty formed the theme of his high-flown 
eloquence. 

Nor must I forget that there was a third person, the 
unregarded sentinel, who saw his fair visions melt away like 
wax before the sun, as the duke persevered in the warm tenor | 
of his passionate discourse. At length the Countess Isabelle i 
de Croye made a determined effort to cut short what was 
becoming intolerably disagreeable to her, especially from the 
pain to which the conduct of the duke was apparently sub¬ 
jecting the Princess. 

Addressing the latter, she said, modestly, but with some ; 
firmness, that the first boon she had to claim from her | 
promised protection was, “That her Highness would under¬ 
take to convince the Duke of Orleans that the ladies of 
Burgundy, though inferior in wit and manners to those of i 
France, were not such absolute fools as to be pleased with no | 
other conversation than that of extravagant compliment.” 

“I grieve, lady,” said the duke, preventing the Princess’s j 
answer, “that you will satirise, in the same sentence, the 
beauty of the dames of Burgundy and the sincerity of the 
knights of France. If we are hasty and extravagant in the 
expression of our admiration, it is because we love as we fight, 
without letting cold deliberation come into our bosoms, and 
surrender to the fair with the same rapidity with which w^e 
defeat the valiant.” 

“The beauty of our countrywomen,” said the young 
countess, with more of reproof than she had yet ventured to 
use towards the high-born suitor, “is as unfit to claim such 
triumphs as the valour of the men of Burgundy is incapable 
of yielding them.” 

“I respect your patriotism, countess,” said the duke; “and 
the last branch of your theme shall not be impugned by me 
till a Burgundian knight shall offer to sustain it with lance in 
rest. But for the injustice which you have done to the charms 
which your land produces, I appeal from yourself to yourself. 
Look there,” he said, pointing to a large mirror, the gift of the 




Quentin Durward 


189 


Venetian republic, and then of the highest rarity and value, 
‘‘and tell me, as you look, what is the heart that can resist the 
charms there represented ?” 

The Princess, unable to sustain any longer the neglect of 
her lover, here sunk backwards on her chair with a sigh, 
which at once recalled the duke from the land of romance, 
and induced the Lady Hameline to ask whether her Highness 
found herself ill. 

“A sudden pain shot through my forehead,” said the Prin¬ 
cess, attempting to smile; “but I shall be presently better.” 

Her Increasing paleness contradicted her words, and 
induced the Lady Hameline to call for assistance, as the 
'Princess was about to faint. 

The duke, biting his lip and cursing the folly which could 
not keep guard over his tongue, ran to summon the Princess’s 
attendants, who were in the next chamber; and when they 
came hastily with the usual remedies, he could not but, as a 
cavalier and gentleman, give his assistance to support and to 
recover her. His voice, rendered almost tender by pity and 
self-reproach, was the most powerful means of recalling her to 
herself, and just as the swoon was passing away the King 
himself -entered the apartment. 



CHAPTER XII. 


THE POLITICIAN 


This is a lecturer so skill’d in policy, 

That (no disparagement to Satan’s cunning) 
He well might read a lesson to the devil, 
And teach the old seducer new temptations. 


Old Play. 


As Louis entered the gallery, he bent his brows in the 
manner we have formerly described as peculiar to him, and 
sent, from under his gathered and gloomy eyebrows, a keen 
look on all around; in darting which, as Quentin afterwards 
declared, his eyes seemed to turn so small, so fierce, and so | 
piercing, as to resemble those of an aroused adder looking 
through the bush of heath in which he lies coiled. ^ || 

When, by this momentary and sharpened glance, the King ( 
had reconnoitered the cause of the bustle which was in the 
apartment, his first address was to the Duke of Orleans. 

“You here, my fair cousin?” he said; and turning to 
Quentin, added sternly, “Had you not charge?” 

“Forgive the young man, sire,” said the duke; “he did not 
neglect his duty; but I was informed that the Princess was in 
this gallery.” 

“And I warrant you would not be withstood when you 
came hither to pay your court,,” said the King, whose detest¬ 
able hypocrisy persisted in representing the duke as participat¬ 
ing in a passion which was felt only on the side of his unhappy 
daughter; “and it is thus you debauch the sentinels of my 
Guard, young man? But what cannot be pardoned to a 
gallant who only lives par amoursT 

The Duke of Orleans raised his head, as if about to reply 
in some manner which might correct the opinion conveyed in 


190 




191 


Quentin Durward 

the Kind’s observation ; but the instinctive reverence, not to 
say fear, of Louis, in which he had been bred from childhood, 
chained up his voice. 

‘And Joan hath been ill?” said the King. “But do not be 
grieved, Louis, it will soon pass away ; lend her your arm to her 
apartment, while I will conduct these strange ladies to theirs.” 

The order was given in a tone which amounted to a com¬ 
mand, and Orleans accordingly made his exit with the Princess 
at one extremity of the gallery, while the King, ungloving his 
right hand, courteously handed the Countess Isabelle and her 
kinswoman to their apartment, which opened from the other. 
He bowed profoundly as they entered, and remained standing 
on the threshold for a minute after they had disappeared; 
then, with great composure, shut the door by which they had 
retired, and turning the huge key, took it from the lock and 
put it into his girdle—an appendage which gave him still 
more perfectly the air of some old miser, who cannot journey 
in comfort unless he bear with him the key of his treasure 
closet. 

With slow and pensive step, and eyes fixed on the ground, 
Louis now paced towards Quentin Durward, who, expecting 
his share of the royal displeasure, viewed his approach with no 
little anxiety. 

“Thou hast done wrong,” said the King, raising his eyes, 
and fixing them firmly on him when he had come within a 
yard of him—“thou hast done foul wrong, and deservest to 
die. Speak not a word in defence! What hadst thou to do 
with dukes or princesses? what with any thing but my order?” 

“So please vour Majesty,” said the young soldier, “what 
could I do?” 

“What couldst thou do when thy post was forcibly 
passed ?” answered the King scornfully. “What is the use of 
that weapon on thy shoulder? Thou shouldst have levelled 
thy piece, and if the presumptuous rebel did not retire on the 
instant, he should have died within this very hall! Go—pass 
into these farther apartments. In the first thou wilt fincT a 


192 


Quentin Durward 

large staircase, which leads to the inner bailey;^ there thou j 
wilt find Oliver Dain. Send him to me; do thou begone to 
thy quarters. As thou dost value thy life, be not so loose of 
thy tongue as thou hast been this day slack of thy hand.” 

Well pleased to escape so easily, yet with a soul .which 
revolted at the cold-blooded cruelty which the King seemed to 
require from him in the execution of his duty, Durward took 
the road indicated, hastened downstairs, and communicated 
the royal pleasure to Oliver., who was waiting in the court 
beneath. The wily tonsor bowed, sighed, and smiled, as, with 
a voice even softer than ordinary, he wished the youth a good 
evening; and they parted, Quentin to his quarters, and Oliver 
to attend the King. 

In this place, the Memoirs" which we have chiefly fol¬ 
lowed in compiling this true history were unhappily defective; 
for, founded chiefly on information supplied by Quentin, they 
do not convey the purport of the dialogue which, in his 
absence, took place between the King and his secret counsellor. 
Fortunately, the library of Hautlieu contains a manuscript 
copy of the Chronique Scandaleuse of Jean de Troyes, much 
more full than that which has been printed; to which are 
added several curious memoranda, which we incline to think 
must have been written dowm by Oliver himself after the 
death of his master, and before he had the happiness to be 
rewarded with the halter which he had so long merited. From 
this we have been able to extract a very full account of the ! 
obscure favourite’s conversation with Louis upon the present 
occasion, which throws a light upon the policy of that prince 
which we might otherwise have sought for in vain. i 

When the favourite attendant entered the Gallery of ' 
Roland, he found the King pensively seated upon the chair j 
which his daughter had left some minutes before. Well 
acquainted with his temper, he glided on with his noiseless 
step until he had jilst crossed the line of the King’s sight, so 


^Bailey. An enclosed area, a court. 

^The Memoirs. Of course a fictitious device. 




Quentin Durward 


193 


as to make him aware of his presence, then shrank modestly 
backward and out of sight, until he should be summoned to 
speak or to listen. The monarch’s first address was an 
unpleasant one: “So, Oliver, your fine schemes are melting 
like snow before the south wind! I pray to our Lady of 
Embrun that they resemble not the ice-heaps of which the 
Switzer churls tell such stories, and come rushing down upon 
our heads.” 

“I have heard with concern that all is not well, sire,” 
answered Oliver. 

“Not well!” exclaimed the King, rising and hastily 
marching up and down the gallery. “All is ill, man, and as 
ill nearly as possible; so much for thy fond-romantic advice 
that I, of all men, should become a protector of distressed 
damsels! I tell thee Burgundy is arming, and on the eve of 
closing an alliance with England. And Edward, who hath 
his hands idle at home, will pour his thousands upon us 
through that unhappy gate of Calais. Singly, I might cajole 
or defy them; but united—united, and with the discontent 
and treachery of that villain St. Paul! All thy fault, Oliver, 
who counselled me to receive the women, and to use the 
services of that damned Bohemian to carry messages to their 
vassals.” 

“My liege,” said Oliver, “you know my reasons. The 
countess’s domains lie between the frontiers of Burgundy and 
Flanders, her castle is almost impregnable, her rights over 
neighbouring estates are such as, if well supported, cannot but 
give much annoyance to Burgundy, were the lady but wedded 
to one who should be friendly to France.” 

“It is—it is a tempting bait,” said the King; “and could 
we have concealed her being here, we might have arranged 
such a marriage for this rich heiress as would have highly 
profited France. But that cursed Bohemian, how couldst 
) thou recommend such a heathen hound for a commission 
which required trust?” 

“Please you,” said Oliver, “to remember it was your 



194 


Quentin Durward 

Majesty’s self who trusted him too far—much farther than I 
recommended. He would have borne a letter trustily enough i 
to the countess’s kinsman, telling him to hold out her castle, 
and promising speedy relief; but your Highness must needs 
put his prophetic powders to the test; and thus he became 
possessed of secrets which were worth betraying to Duke 
Charles.” 

“I am ashamed—I am ashamed,” said Louis. “And yet, j 
Oliver, they say that these heathen people are descended from 
the sage Chaldeans, who did read the mysteries of the stars in 
the plains of Shinar.” 

Well aware that his master, with all his acuteness and 
sagacity, was but the more prone to be deceived by soothsayers, 
astrologers, diviners, and all that race of pretenders to occult ! 
science, and that he even conceived himself to have some skill | 
in these arts, Oliver dared to press this point no farther; and i 
only observed that the Bohemian had been a bad prophet on | 
his own account, else he would have avoided returning to j 
Tours, and saved himself from the gallows he had merited. 

“It often happens that those who are gifted with prophetic , 
knowledge,” answered Louis, with much gravity, “have not ! 
the power of foreseeing those events in which they themselves i 
are personally Interested.” 

“Under your Majesty’s favour,” replied the confidant, 
“that seems as if a man could not see his own hand by means 
of the candle which he holds, and which shows him every 
other object In the apartment.” 

“He cannot see his own features by the light which shows 
the faces of others,” replied Louis; “and that is the more 
faithful illustration of the case. But this Is foreign to my 
purpose at present. The Bohemian hath had his reward, and 
peace be with him. But these ladies—not only does Burgundy 
threaten us with war for harbouring them, but their presence 
is like to Interfere with my projects In my own family. My 
simple cousin of Orleans hath barely seen the damsel, and I 




Quentin Durward 


195 


^ venture to prophesy that the sight of her is like to make him 
less pliable in the matter of his alliance with Joan.” 

“Your Majest)^.,” answered the counsellor, “may send the 
Ladies of Croye back to Burgundy, and so make your peace 
with the Duke. Many might murmur at this as dishonour¬ 
able ; but if necessity demands the sacrifice-” 

“If profit demanded the sacrifice, Oliver, the sacrifice 
should be made without hesitation,” answered the King. “1 
am an old experienced salmon, and used not to gulp the 
angler’s hook because it is busked up with a feather called 
honour. But what is worse than a lack of honour, there were, 
in returning those ladies to Burgundy, a forfeiture of those 
views of advantage which moved us to give them an asylum. 
It were heart-breaking to renounce the opportunity of plant¬ 
ing a friend to ourselves and an enemy to Burgundy in the 
very centre of his dominions, and so near to the discontented 
cities of Flanders. Oliver, I cannot relinquish the advantages 
which our scheme of marrying the maiden to a friend of our 
own house seems to hold out to us.” 

“Your Majesty,” said Oliver, after a moment’s thought, 
“might confer her hand on some right trusty friend, who 
would take all blame on himself, and serve your Majesty 
secretly, while in public you might disown him.” 

“And where am I to find such a friend?” said Louis. 
“Were I to bestow her upon any one of our mutinous and 
^ ill-ruled nobles, would it not be rendering him independent? 
j and hath it not been my policy for years to prevent them from 
, becoming so? Dunois indeed—him, and him only, I might 
f perchance trust. He would fight for the crown of France, 
1 whatever were his condition. But honours and wealth change 
f men’s natures. Even Dunois I will not trust.” 
h “Your Majesty may find others,” said Oliver, in his 
smoothest manner, and in a tone more insinuating than that 
which he usually employed in conversing with the King, who 
permitted him considerable freedom: “men dependent entirely 
on your own grace and favour, and who could no more exist 



196 


Quentin Durward 

without your countenance than without sun or air, men 
rather of head than of action, men who-” 

“Men who resemble thyself, ha!” said King Louis. “No, 
Oliver, by my faith that arrow was too rashly shot! What! 
because I indulge thee with my confidence, and let thee, in 
reward, polL my lieges a little now and then, dost thou 
think it makes thee fit to be the husband of that beautiful 
vision, and a count of the highest class to boot?—thee, thee, I 
say, low-born and lower-bred, whose wisdom is at best a sort 
of cunning, and whose courage is more than doubtful?” 

“Your jMajesty imputes to me a presumption of which I 
am not guilty, in supposing me to aspire so highly,” said 
Oliver. 

“I am glad to hear it, man,” replied the King; “and truly, 
I hold your judgment the healthier that you disown such a 
reverie. But methinks thy speech sounded strangely in that 
key. Well, to return. I dare not wed this beauty to one of 
my subjects; I dare not return her to Burgundy; I dare not 
transmit her to England or to Germany, where she is likely 
to become the prize of some one more apt to unite with 
Burgundy than with France, and who would be more ready 
to discourage the honest malcontents in Ghent and Liege than 
to yield them that wholesome countenance which might always 
find Charles the Hardy enough to exercise his valour on, 
without stirring from his own domains^—and they were in 
so ripe a humour for insurrection, the men ot Liege in 
especial, that they alone, well heated and supported, would 
find my fair cousin work for more than a twelvemonth; and 

backed by a warlike Count of Croye- O, Oliver! the plan 

is too hopeful to be resigned without a struggle. Cannot thy 
fertile brain devise some scheme?” 

Oliver paused for a long time; then at last replied, “What 
if a bridal could be accomplished betwdxt Isabelle of Croye 
and young Adolphus, the Duke of Gueldres?” 


^PoU. To shear (figuratively). 









197 


Quentin Durward 

“What!” said the King, in astonishment; “sacrifice her, 
and she, too, so lovely a creature, to the furious wretch who 
deposed, imprisoned, and has often threatened to murder, his 
own father! No, Oliver—no, that were too unutterably cruel 
even for you and me, who look so steadfastly to our excellent 
end, the peace and the welfare of France, and respect so little 
the means by which it is attained. Besides, he lies distant from 
us, and is detested by the people of Ghent and Liege. No-^ 
no, I will none of Adolphus of Gueldres; think on some one 
else.” 

“My invention is exhausted, sire,” said the counsellor; “I 
can remember no one who, as husband to the Countess of 
Croye would be likely to answer your Majesty’s views. He 
must unite such various qualities—a friend to your Majesty, 
an enemy to Burgundy, of policy enough to conciliate the 
Gauntois and Liegeois,^ and of valour sufficient to defend his 
little dominions against the power of Duke Charles; of noble 
birth besides—that your Highness insists upon; and of excel¬ 
lent and most virtuous character, to the boot of all.” 

“Nay, Oliver,,” said the King, “I leaned not so much— 
that is, so very much, on character; but methinks Isabelle’s 
bridegroom should be something less publicly and generally 
abhorred than Adolphus of Gueldres. For example, since I 
myself must suggest some one, why not W^illiam de la Marck ? 

“On my halidome, sire,” said Oliver, “I cannot complain 
of your demanding too high a standard of moral excellence in 
the happy man, if the Wild Boar of Ardennes can serve your 
turn. De la Marck! why, he is the most notorious robber and 
murderer on all the frontiers, excommunicated by the Pope 
for a thousand crimes.” 

“We will have him released from the sentence, friend 
Oliver; holy church is merciful.” 

“Almost an outlaw,” continued Oliver, “and under the 


^Gauntois and Liegeois. People of Ghent and Liege. 



198 


Quentin Uurward 

ban of the Empire/ by an ordinance of the Chamber ai j 
Ratisbon.” i 

“We will have the ban taken off, friend Oliver,” con' I 

tinned the King in the same tone; “the Imperial Chamber I 

will hear reason.” ’ ' 

“And admitting him to be of noble birth,” said Oliver, 1 
“he hath the manners, the face, and the outward form, as well t 
as the heart, of a Flemish butcher. She will never accept I 
him.” I 

“His mode of wooing, if I mistake him not,” said Louis, 
“will render it difficult for her to make a choice.” 

“I was far wrong, indeed, when I taxed your Majest>^ I 
with being overscrupulous,” said the counsellor. “On my 
life, the crimes of Adolphus are but virtues to those of De la 
Marck! And then how is he to meet with his bride? Your 
Majesty knows he dare not stir far from his own Forest of ; 
Ardennes.” 

“That must be cared for,” said the King; “and, in the i 

first place, the two ladies must be acquainted privately that ! 

they can be no longer maintained at this court, except at the 
expense of a war between France and Burgundy, and that, ; 
unwilling to deliver them up to my fair cousin of Burgundy, 

I am desirous they should secretly depart from my dominions.” 

“They will demand to be conveyed to England,” said 
Oliver; “and we shall have her return to Flanders with an 
island lord, having a round fair face, long brown hair, and I 
three thousand archers at his back.” 

“No—no,” replied the King; “we dare not—you under¬ 
stand me—so far offend our fair cousin of Burgundy as to let 
her pass to England. It would bring his displeasure as cer¬ 
tainly as our maintaining her here. No—no, to the safety of 
the church alone we will venture to commit her; and the 
utmost we can do is to connive at the Ladies Hameline and 
Isabelle de Croye departing in disguise, and with a small 

^The Ban of the Empire. De la Marck’s territory lay on the frontiers of 
Germany; he was, therefore, a subject of tli^ empire, and had been, by decision of 
the Imperial Diet at Ratisbon, placed under the censure, or ban, of the Empire. 






Quentin Durward 


199 


retinue, to take refuge with the Bishop of Liege, who will 
place the fair Isabelle for the time under the safeguard of a 
convent.” 

“And if that convent protect her from William de la 
Marck, when he knows of your Majesty’s favourable inten¬ 
tions, I have mistaken the man.” 

“Why, yes,” answ^ered the King, “thanks to our secret 
supplies of money, De la Marck hath together a handsome 
handful of as unscrupulous soldiery as ever were outlawed., 
with which he contrives to maintain himself among the woods, 
in such a condition as makes him formidable both to the Duke 
of Burgundy and the Bishop of Liege. He lacks nothing but 
some territory which.he may call his own; and this being soi 
fair an opportunity to establish himself by marriage, I think 
that, Pasques-dieu! he wall find means to win and wed, with¬ 
out more than a hint on our part. The Duke of Burgundy 
will then have such a thorn in his side as no lancet of our 
time will easily cut out from his flesh. The Boar of Ardennes, 
whom he has already outlawed, strengthened by the possession 
of that fair lady’s lands, castles, and seigniory, with the dis¬ 
contented Liegeois to boot, who, by my faith, wall not be in 
that case unwilling to choose him for their captain and leader—■ 
let Charles then think of wars with France when he will, or 
rather let him bless his stars if she war not with him. How 
dost thou like the scheme, Oliver, ha?” 

“Rarely,” said Oliver, “save and except the doom which 
confers that lady on the Wild Boar of Ardennes. By my hali- 
dome, saving in a little outward show of gallantry, Tristan, 
the provost-marshal, were the more proper bridegroom of 
the two.” 

“Anon thou didst propose Master Oliver, the barber,” 
said Louis; “but friend Oliver and gossip Tristan, though 
excellent men in the way of counsel and execution, are not the 
stuff that men make counts of. Know you not that the 
burghers of Flanders value birth in other men, precisely 
because they have it not themselves? A plebeian mob ever 


200 Quentin Durward 

desire an aristocratic leader. Yonder Ked, or Cade,^ or how 
called they him?—in England, w^as fain to lure his rascal rout 
after him by pretending to the blood of the Mortimers. 
William de la Marck comes of the blood of the princes of i 
Sedan, as noble as mine own. And now to business. I must 
determine the’ Ladies of Croye to a speedy and secret flight 
under sure guidance. This will be easily donei we have but 
to hint the alternative of surrendering them to Burgundy. 
Thou must find means to let William de la Marck know of 
their motions, and let him choose his owm time and place to 
push his suit. I know a fit person to travel with them.” 

“May I ask to whom your Majesty commits such an 
important charge?” asked the tonsor. 

“To a foreigner, be sure,” replied the King, “one who has 
neither kin nor interest in France,, to interfere with the execu¬ 
tion of my pleasure; and who knows too little of the country , 
and its factions to suspect more of my purpose than I choose | 
to tell him—in a word, I design to employ the young Scot j 
wTo sent you hither but now.” j 

Oliver paused in a manner which seemed to imply a doubt i 
of the prudence of the choice, and then added, “Your Majesty 1 
has reposed confidence in that stranger boy earlier than is your j 

wont.” j 

“I have my reasons,” answered the King. “Thou know^st 
(and he crossed himself) my devotion for the blessed St. i 
Julian. I had been saying my orisons to that holy saint late in I 
the night before last, wTerein, as he is known to be the 
guardian of travellers, I made it my humble petition that he 
would augment my household with such w^andering foreigners 
as might best establish throughout our kingdom unlimited 
devotion to our will; and I vowed to the good saint in 
guerdon that I would, in his name, receive, and relieve, and 
maintain them.” 

“And did St. Julian,” said Oliver, “send your Majesty 

^Cade. John Cade, who headed a revolt in England in 1450; he claimed the 
name of the'Mortimers. 




.Quentin Durward 201 

this long-legged importation from Scotland in answer to your 
prayers?” 

Although the barber, who w^ell knew that his master had 
superstition in a large proportion to his want of religion, and 
that on such topics nothing was more easy than to offend 
hJni—although, I say, he knew the royal weakness, and there¬ 
fore carefully put the preceding question in the softest and 
most simple tone of voice, Louis felt the innuendo which it 
contained, and regarded the speaker with high displeasure. 

“Sirrah,” he said, “thou art well called Oliver the Devil, 
who darest thus to sport at once with thy master and with the 
blessed saints. I tell thee, wert thou one grain less necessary 
to me, I would have thee hung up on yonder oak before the 
castle, as an example to all who scoff at things holy! Know, 
thou infidel slave, that mine eyes were no sooner closed than 
the blessed St. Julian was visible to me, leading a young man, 
whom he presented to me, saying, that his fortune should be 
to escape the sword, the cord, the river, and to bring good 
fortune to the side which he should espouse, and to the adven¬ 
tures in which he should be engaged. I walked out on the 
succeeding morning, and I met with this youth, whose image 
1 had seen in my dream. In his own country he hath escaped 
the sword, amid the massacre of his whole family, and here, 
within the brief compass of two da 3 'S, he hath been stiangely 
rescued from drowning and from the gallows, and hath 
i already, on a particular occasion, as I but lately hinted to 
! thee, been of the most material service to me. I receive him 
^ «as sent hither by St. Julian, to serve me in the most difficult, 

! the most dangerous, and even the most desperate services.” 

' The King, as he thus expressed himself, doffed his hat, 
and selecting from the numerous little leaden figures with 
which the hat-band was garnished that which represented St. 
Julian, he placed if on the table, as was often his wont when 
iome peculiar feeling of hope, or perhaps of remorse, happened 
to thrill across his mind, and kneeling down before it, mut- 


202 


Quentin Durward 

tered, with an appearance of profound devotion, “Sancte 
Juliatic, adsis precibus nostris! Ora—ora pro nobis 

This was one of those ague fits of superstitious devotion 
which often seized on Louis in such extraordinary times and 
places that they gave one of the most sagacious monarchs who i 
ever reigned the appearance of a madman, or at least of one ] 
whose mind was shaken by some deep consciousness of guilt, j 
While he was thus employed, his favourite looked at him 
with an expression of sarcastic contempt, which he scarce 
attempted to disguise. Indeed, it was one of this man’s pecu¬ 
liarities that, in his whole intercourse with his master, he laid 
aside that fondling, purring affectation of officiousness and 
humility which distinguished his conduct to others; and if he 
still bore some resemblance to a cat, it was when the animal 
is on its guard—watchful, animated, and alert for sudden 
exertion. The cause of this change was probably Oliver’s 
consciousness that his master was himself too profound a 
hypocrite not to see through the hypocrisy of others. 

“The features of this jouth, then, if I may presume to 
speak,” said Oliver,, “resemble those of him whom your dream i 
exhibited ?” ' 

“Closely and intimately,” said the King, whose imagina¬ 
tion, like that of superstitious people in general, readily 
Imposed upon itself. “I have had his horoscope cast, besides, 
by Galeotti Martivalle, and 1 have plainly learned, through 
his art and mine owm observation, that, in many respects, this 
unfriended youth has his destiny under the same constellation 
with mine.” 

Whatever Oliver might think of the causes thus boldly 
assigned for the preference of an inexperienced stripling, he 
dared make no farther objections, well knovcing that Louis, 
who, while residing in exile, had bestowed much of his atten¬ 
tion on the supposed science of judicial astrology, would listen 
to no raillery of any kind which impeached his skill. He 


^Sancle Juliane, etc. Holy Julian, listen to our prayers! Pray—pray for usi 




203 


Quentin Durward 

therefore only replied that he trusted the youth would prove 
faithful in the discharge of a task so delicate. 

“We will take care he hath no opportunity to be other¬ 
wise,” said Louis; “for he shall be privy to nothing save that 
he is sent to escort the Ladies of Croye to the residence of the 
Bishop of Liege. Of the probable interference of William 
de la Marck he shall know as little as they themselves. None 
shall know that secret but the guide; and Tristan or thou 
must find one fit for our purpose.” 

“But in that case,” said Oliver, “judging of him from his 
country and appearance, the young man is like to stand to 
his arms so soon as the Wdd Boar comes on them, and may 
not come off so easdy from the tusks as he did this morning. 

“If they rend his heart-strings,” said Louis, composedly, 
“St. Julian, blessed be his name; can send me another in his 
stead. It skills as little that the messenger is slain after his 
duty is executed as that the flask is broken when the wine is 
drunk out. Meanwhile, we must expedite the ladies’ depart¬ 
ure, and then persuade the Count de Crevecceur that it ha* 
taken place without our connivance, we having been desirous 
to restore them to the custody of our fair cousin, which their 
sudden departure has unhappily prevented.” 

“The count is perhaps too wise, and his master too 

prejudiced, to believe it.” 

“Holy Mother!” said Louis, “what unbelief would that 
be in Christian men 1 But Oliver, they shall believe us. We 
will throw into our whole conduct towards our fair cousin, 
Duke Charles, such thorough and unlimited confidence that, 
not to believe we have been sincere with him in every respect, 
he must be worse than an infidel. I tell thee, so convinced am 
I that I could make Charles of Burgundy think of me in 
every respect as I would have him,, that, were it necessary for 
silencing his doubts, I would ride unarmed, and on a palfrey, 
to visit him in his tent, with no better guard about me than 
thine own simple person, friend Oliver. 

“And I,” said Oliver, “though I pique not myself upon 


204 Quentin Durward 

managing steel in any other shape than that of a razor, would 
ratlier charge a Swiss battalion of pikes than I would accom¬ 
pany your Highness upon such a visit of friendship to Charles 
of Burgundy, when he hath so many grounds to be well 
assured that there is enmity in your Majesty’^s bosom against 
him.” 

“Thou art a fool, Oliver,” said the King, “with all thy 
pretensions to wisdom, and art not aware that deep policy 
must often assume the appearance of the most extreme sim¬ 
plicity, as courage occasionally shrouds itself under the show 
of modesty timidity. Were it needful, full surely would I do 
what I have said—the saints always blessing our purpose, and 
the heavenly constellations bringing round, in their course, a 
proper conjuncture for such an exploit.” 

In these words did King Louis XI. give the first hint of the 
extraordinary resolution which he afterwards adopted in order 
to dupe his great rival, the subsequent execution of which had 
very nearly proved his own ruin. 

He parted with his counsellor, and presently afterwards 
went to the apartment of the Ladies of Croye. Few per¬ 
suasions be 5 'ond his mere license would have been necessary to 
determine their retreat from the court of France, upon the 
first hint that they might not be eventually protected against 
the Duke of Burgundy; but it was not so easy to induce them 
to choose Liege for the place of their retreat. They entreated 
and requested to be transferred to Bretagne or Calais, where 
under protection of the Duke of Bretagne or King of 
England, they might remain in a state of safety until the 
sovereign of Burgundy should relent in his rigorous purpose 
towards them. But neither of these places of safety at all 
suited the plans of Louis, and he was at last successful in 
inducing them to adopt that which did coincide with them. 

The power of the Bishop of Lieee for their defence was 
not to be questioned, since his ecclesiastical dignity gave him 
the means of protecting the fugitives a ’-ainst all Christian 
princes; while, on the other hand, his secular forces, if not 




Quentin Durward 


205 


numerous, seemed at least sufficient to defend his person and 
all under his protection from any sudden violence. The 
difficulty was to reach the little court of the bishop in safety; 
but for this Louis promised to provide, by spreading a report 
that the Ladies of Croye had escaped from Tours by nigbt,, 
under fear of being delivered up to the Burgundian envoy, 
and had taken their flight towards Bretagne. He also prom¬ 
ised them the attendance of a small but faithful retinue, and 
letters to the commanders of such towns and fortresses as they 
might pass, with instructions to use every means for protecting 
and assisting them in their journey. 

The Ladies of Croye, although internally resenting the 
ungenerous and discourteous manner in which Louis thus 
deprived them of the promised asylum in his court, were so 
far from objecting to the hasty departure which he proposed, 
that they even anticipated his project by entreating to be per¬ 
mitted to set forward that same night. The Lady Hameline 
was already tired of a place where there were neither admir¬ 
ing courtiers nor festivities to be witnessed; and the Lady 
Isabelle thought she had seen enough to conclude that, were 
the temptation to become a little stronger, Louis XL, not 
satisfied with expelling them from his court, would not 
hesitate to deliver her up to her irritated suzerain, the Duke 
of Burgundy. Lastly, Louis himself readily acquiesced in 
their hasty departure, anxious to preserve peace with Duke 
Charles, and alarmed lest the beauty of Isabelle should inter¬ 
fere with and impede the favourite plan which he had formed 
for bestowing the hand of his daughter Joan upon his cousin 
of Orleans. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE JOURNEY 

Talk not of kings—I scorn the poor comparison; 

I am a sage, and can command the elements, 

At least men think I can; and on that thought 
I found unbounded empire. 

Albumazar. 

Occupation and adventure might be said to crowd upon 
the young Scottishman with the force of a spring-tide; for he 
was speedily summoned to the apartment of his captain, the 
Lord Crawford, where, to his astonishment, he again beheld 
the King. After a few words respecting the honour and trust 
which were about to be reposed in him, which made Quentin 
internally afraid that they were again about to propose to him 
such a watch as he had kept upon the Count of Crevecoeur,, 
or perhaps some duty still more repugnant to his feelings, he 
was not relieved merely, but delighted, with hearing that he 
was selected, with the assistance of four others under his com¬ 
mand, one of whom was a guide, to escort the Ladies of Croye 
to the little court of their relative, the Bishop of Liege, in the 
safest and most commodious, and at the same time in the most 
secret, manner possible. A scroll was given him in which 
were set down directions for his guidance, for the places of 
halt (generally chosen in obscure villages, solitary monasteries, 
and situations remote from towns), and for the general pre¬ 
cautions which he was to attend to, especially on approaching 
the frontier of Burgundy. He was sufficiently supplied with 
instructions what he ought to say and do to sustain the person¬ 
age of the maitre d'hotel^ of two English ladies of rank, who 
had been on a pilgrimage to St. Martin of Tours, and were 

Maitre d’hdlel. Steward, 


206 


207 


.Quentin Durward 

about to visit the holy city of Cologne, and worship the relics 
of the sage Eastern monarchs ^ who came to adore the nativity 
of Bethlehem; for under that character the Ladies of Croye 
were to journey. 

Without having any defined notions of the cause of his 
delight, Quentin Durward’s heart leapt for joy at the idea of 
approaching thus nearly to the person of the beauty of the 
turret, and in a situation which entitled him to her confidence, 
since her protection was in so great a degree entrusted to his 
conduct and courage. He felt no doubt in his own mind that 
he should be her successful guide through the hazards of her 
pilgrimage. Youth seldom thinks of dangers; and bred up 
free, and fearless, and self-confiding, Quentin, in particular, 
only thought of them to defy them. He longed to be exempted 
from the restraint of the royal presence, that he might indulge 
the secret glee with which such unexpected tidings filled him, 
and which prompted him to bursts of delight which would 
have been totally unfitting for that society. 

But Louis had not yet done with him. That cautious mon¬ 
arch had to consult a counsellor of a different stamp from 
Oliver le Diable, and who was supposed to derive his skill 
from the superior and astral intelligences, as men, judging 
from their fruits, were apt to think the counsels of Oliver 
sprung from the devil himself. 

Louis therefore led the way, followed by the impatient 
Quentin, to a separate tower of the Castle of Plessis, in which 
was installed, in no small ease and splendour, the celebrated 
astrologer, poet,, and philosopher, Galeotti Marti,^ or Martins, 
or Martivalle, a native of Narni, in Italy, the author of the 
famous treatise, De Vulgo Incognitisf and the subject of his 
age’s admiration, and of the panegyrics of Paulus Jovius.^ 

^Eastern monarchs. The bones of the three Magi were, according to tradition, 
brought to the city of Cologne in the twelfth century. 

2 Galeotti Marti. See Note 15 at end of the novel. 

^De Vulgo Incognitis. Concerning things unknown to the common people. 

*Paulus Jovius. An Italian historian of the si.xteenth century. 


208 


Quentin Durward. 

He had long flourished at the court of the celebrated Matthias 
Corvinus, king of Hungary, from whom he was in some 
measure decoyed by Louis, who grudged the Hungarian mon¬ 
arch the society and the counsels of a sage accounted so skilful 
in reading the decrees of Heaven. 

Martivalle was none of those ascetic, withered, pale pro¬ 
fessors of mystic learning of those days, who bleared their 
eyes over the midnight furnace, and macerated their bodies by 
out-watching the polar bear.^ He indulged in all courtly 
pleasures, and, until he grew corpulent, had excelled in all 
martial sports and gymnastic exercises, as well as in the use of 
arms; insomuch, that Janus Pannonius^ has left a Latin 
epigram, upon a wrestling-match betwixt Galeotti and a 
renowned champion of that art, in the presence of the 
Hungarian king and court, in which the astrologer was com¬ 
pletely victorious. 

The apartments of this courtly and martial sage were far 
more splendidly furnished than any which Quentin had yet 
seen in the royal palace; and the carving and ornamented 
woodwork of his library, as well as the magnificence displayed 
in the tapestries, showed the elegant taste of the learned 
Italian. Out of his study one door opened to his sleeping- 
apartment, another led to the turret which served as his 
observatory. A large oaken table, in the midst of the chamber, 
was covered with a rich Turkey carpet, the spoils of the tent 
of a pacha after the great battle of Jaiza,^ where the astrologer 
had fought abreast with the valiant champion of Christendom, 
Matthias Corvinus. On the table lay a variety of mathe¬ 
matical and astrological instruments, all of the most rich 

^Out-watching the polar bear. Vigils which continue until the constellation of 
the Bear has disappeared. 

“Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 

Be seen in some high lonely tower, 

Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, with thrice-great Hermes.” 

— Milton’s II Penseroso 

^Janus Pannonius. A Hungarian poet of the fifteenth century. 

> ^Jaiza. Formerly the capital of Bosnia, captured after a long siege by Matthias 
Corvinus in 1463. 


Quentin Durward 


209 


materials and curious workmanship. His astrolabe^ of silver 
was the gift of the Emperor of Germany, and his Jacob’s 
staff" of ebony, jointed with gold and curiously inlaid, was a 
mark of esteem from the reigning Pope. 

There were various other miscellaneous articles disposed 
on the table, or hanging around the walls; amongst others, 
two complete suits of armour, one of mail, the other of plate, 
both of which from their great size, seemed to call the 
gigantic astrologer their owner, a Spanish toledo,^ a Scottish 
broadsword, a Turkish scimitar, with bows, quivers, and 
other war-like weapons, musical instruments of several dif¬ 
ferent kinds, a silver crucifix, a sepulchral antique vase, and 
several of the little brazen Penates"^ of the ancient heathens, 
with other curious nondescript articles, some of which in the 
superstitious opinions of that period, seemed to be designed for , 
magical purposes. The library of this singular character was 
of the same miscellaneous description with his other effects. 
Curious manuscripts of classical antiquity lay mingled with 
the voluminous labours of Christian divines, and of those 
painstaking sages who professed the chemical 'science, and 
proffered to guide their students into the most secret recesses 
of nature by means of the Hermetical philosophy.^ Some 
were written in the Eastern character, and others concealed 
their sense or nonsense under the veil of hieroglyphics and 
cabalistic characters. The whole apartment and its furniture 
of every kind, formed a scene very impressive on the fancy, 
considering the general belief then indisputably entertained 
concerning the truth of the occult sciences; and that effect 

^Astrolabe. An instrument for determining the altitude of the stars. 

Jacob’s staff. A mathematical instrument for determining heights and 
distances. 

^Toledo. “Toledo blade”; sword-blades made at Toledo in Spain were 
celebrated for their superior quality. 

*Penates. Household gods. 

^Hermetical philosophy. A system ascribed to Hermes Trismegistus (thrice 
greatest) the Greek name of the Egyptian god Thoth, the traditional author of 
Egyptian culture. 


2!0 


Quentin Durward 

was increased by the manners and appearance of the individua 
himself, who, seated in a huge chair, was employed in curi 
oiisly examining a specimen, just issued from the Frankfon 
press, of the newly invented art of printing^ 

Galeotti Martivalle was a tall, bulky, yet stately man 
considerably past his prime, and whose youthful habits o- 
exercise,, though still occasionally resumed, had not been abh 
to contend with his natural tendency to corpulence, increasec 
by sedentary study and indulgence in the pleasures of th( 
table. His features, though rather overgrown, were dig 
nlfied and noble, and a santon " might have envied the darl 
and downward sweep of his long-descending beard. His dres‘ 
was a chamber-robe of the richest Genoa velvet, with ample 
sleeves, clasped with frogs of gold, and lined with sables. Ii 
was fastened round.his middle by a broad belt of virgin parch¬ 
ment, round which were represented in crimson characters the 
signs of the zodiac. He rose and bowed to the King, yet with 
the air of one to whom such exalted society was familiar, anc 
who was not at all likely, even in the royal presence, to com¬ 
promise the dignity then especially affected by the pursuers oi 
science. 

“You are engaged, father,” said the King, “and, as I think, 
with this new-fashioned art of multiplying manuscripts by the 
intervention of machinery. Can things of such mechanical 
and terrestrial import Interest the thoughts of one before 
whom Heaven has unrolled her own celestial volumes?” 

“My brother,” replied Martivalle—“for so the tenant oJ 
this cell must term even the King of France when he deigns tc 
visit him as a disciple—believe me that, in considering the 
consequences of this invention, I read with as certain augury 
as by any combination of the heavenly bodies the most awful 
aqd portentous changes. When I reflect with what slow and 
limited supplies the stream of science hath hitherto descended 

^Printing. The invention of printing was really first practiced at Mayence, 
on the Rhine. While the first book issued from that press bears the date 1457, 
the first from Frankfort is dated 1507. [Laing). — S.cott’s Note. 

^Santon. A Mahommedan prophet or saint. 


Quentin Durward 


211 


to us, how difficult to be obtained by those most ardent in its 
search, how certain to be neglected by all who regard their 
ease, how liable to be diverted, or altogether dried up, by the 
invasions of barbarism—can I look forward without wonder 
and astonishment to the lot of a succeeding generation, on 
whom knowledge will descend like the first and second rain, 
uninterrupted, unabated, unbounded, fertilising some grounds 
and overflowing others, changing the whole form of social 
life, establishing and overthrowing religions, erecting and 
destroying kingdoms-” 

“Hold, Galeotti,” said Louis—“shall these changes come 
in our time?” 

“No, my ro5’’al brother,” replied Martivalle; “this inven¬ 
tion may be likened to a young tree which is now newly 
planted, but shall in succeeding generations, bear fruit as fatal, 
yet as precious, as that of the Garden of Eden—the knowl¬ 
edge, namely, of good and evil.” 

Louis answered, after a moment’s pause, “Let futuriry 
look to what concerns them; we are men of this age, and to 
this age we will confine our care. Sufficient for the day is the 
evil thereof. Tell me, hast thou proceeded farther in the 
horoscope^ which I sent to thee, and of which you made me 
some report? I have brought the party hither, that you may 
use palmistry, or chiromancy,“ if'such is your pleasure. The 
matter is pressing.” 

The bulky sage arose from his seat, and, approaching the 
young soldier, fixed on him his keen large dark eyes, as if he 
were in the act of internally spelling and dissecting every 
lineament and feature. Blushing and borne down by this 
close examination on the part of one whose expression was so 
reverent at once and commanding, Quentin bent his eyes on 
the ground, and did not again raise them till in the act of 

^Horoscope. A diagram of the heavens showing the position of the planets 
at the hour of one’s birth, supposed to reveal the celestial influences controlling 
the subject’s career. The favorable moment for beginning a journey or an under¬ 
taking of importance was also determined by a horoscope. 

'^Chiromancy. A Greek derivative exactly corresponding to the Latin 
derivative palmistry. 



212 


Quentin Durward 

obeying the sonorous command of the astrologer—“Look up 
and be not afraid, but hold forth thy hand.” 

When Martivalle had inspected his palm according to the 
form of the mystic arts which he practised, he led the King 
some steps aside. “My royal brother,” he said, “the physiog¬ 
nomy of this youth, together with the lines impressed on his 
hand, confirm, in a wonderful degree, the report which I 
founded on his horoscope, as well as that judgment which your 
own proficiency in our sublime arts induced you at once to 
form of him. All promises that this youth' will be brave and 
fortunate.” 

“And faithful?” said the King; “for valour and fortune 
square not always with fidelity.” 

“And faithful also,” said the astrologer; “for there is 
manly firmness in look and eye, and his I 'lnea vitae ^ is deeply 
marked and clear, which indicates a true and upright adher¬ 
ence to those who do benefit or lodge trust in him. But 
yet-” 

“But what?” said the King. “Father Galeotti, wherefore 
do you now pause?” 

“The ears of kings,” said the sage, “are like the palates of 
those dainty patients which are unable to endure the bitterness 
of the drugs necessary for their recovery.” 

“My ears and my palate have no such niceness,” said 
Louis; “let me hear what is useful counsel, and swallow what 
is wholesome medicine. I quarrel not with the rudeness of 
the one or the harsh taste of the other. I have not been 
cockered ^ in wantonness or indulgence. My youth was one 
of exile and suffering. My ears are used to harsh counsel, 
and take no offence at it.” 

“Then plainly, sire,” replied Galeotti, “if you have aught 
in your purposed commission which—which, in short,, may 
startle a scrupulous conscience—entrust it not to this youth— 

^Linea vitae. In palmistry, “line of life;” the principal line on the palm of 
the hand. 

^Cockered. Pampered, petted. 



Quentin Durward 


213 


at least, not till a few years’ exercise in your service has made 
him as unscrupulous as others.” 

“And is this what you hesitated to speak, my good 
Galeotti? and didst thou think thy speaking it would offend 
me?” said the King. “Alack, I know that thou art well 
sensible that the path of royal policy cannot be always 
squared, as that of private life ought invariably to be, by the 
abstract maxims of religion and morality. Wherefore do we, 
the princes of the earth, found churches and monasteries, make 
pilgrimages, undergo penances, and perform devotions, with 
which others may dispense, unless it be because the benefit of 
the public, and the welfare of our kingdoms, force us upon 
measures which grieve our consciences as Christians? But 
Heaven has mercy, the church an unbounded stock of merits, 
and the intercession of Our Lady of Embrun and the blessed 
saints is urgent, everlasting, and omnipotent.” He laid his 
hat on the table, and devoutly kneeling before the images 
stuck into the hat-band, repeated, in an earnest tone, ”Sancte 
Huberte, Sancte Juliane, Sancte Martine, Sancta Rosalia, 
Sancti quotquot adestis, orate pro me peccatoreT^ He then 
smote his breast, arose, reassumed his hat,, and continued— 
“Be assured, good father, that, whatever there may be in our 
commission of the nature at which you have hinted, the execu¬ 
tion shall not be entrusted to this youth, nor shall he be privy 
to such part of our purpose.” 

“In this,” said the astrologer, “you, my royal brother, will 
walk wisely. Something may be apprehended likewise from 
the rashness of this your young commissioner—a failing 
inherent in those of sanguine complexion. But I hold that, by 
the rules of art, this chance is not to be weighed against the 
other properties discovered from his horoscope and otherwise.” 

“Will this next midnight be a propitious hour in which to 
commence a perilous journey ? said the King. See, here is 
your ephemerides,^ you see the position of the moon in regard 

^Sancte Huberle, etc. Holy Hubert, Julian, Martin, Rosalie, all ye saints 
who hear me, pray for me, a sinner! 

iEphemerides. Plural of Ephemeris, an astronomical almanac. 


214 


Quentin Durward 


to Saturn and the ascendance of Jupiter. That should argue, 
methinks, in submission to your better art, success to him who 
sends forth the expedition at such an hour.” 

“To him who sends forth the expedition,” said the 
astrologer,, after a pause, “this conjunction doth indeed 
promise success; but methinks that Saturn being combust,^ 
threatens danger and infortune to the part sent; whence I 
infer that the errand may be perilous, or even fatal, to those 
who are to journey. Violence and captivity, methinks, are 
intimated in that adverse conjunction.” 

“Violence and captivity to those who are sent,” answered 
the King, “but success to the wu'shes of the sender. Runs it 
not thus, my learned father?” 

“Even so,” replied the astrologer. 

The King paused, w’ithout giving any further indication 
how^ far this presaging speech (probably hazarded by the 
astrologer from his conjecture that the commission related to 
some dangerous purpose) squared with his real object, which, 
as the reader is aware, was to betray the Countess Isabelle of 
Croye into the hands of William de la Marck, a nobleman 
indeed of high birth, but degraded by his crimes into a leader 
of banditti, distinguished for his turbulent disposition and 
ferocious bravery. 

The King then pulled forth a paper from his pocket, and, 
ere he gave it to Martivalle, said, in a tone which resembled 
that of an apology—“Learned Galeotti, be not surprised that, 
possessing in you an oracular treasure superior to that lodged 
in the breast of any now" alive, not excepting the great 
Nostradamus"' himself, I am desirous frequently to avail 
myself of your skill in those doubts and difficulties wffiich beset 
every prince W"ho hath to contend with rebellion w"ithln his 
land and with external enemies, both powerful and Inveterate.” 

“When I W"as honoured w"ith 3 'our request, sire,” said the 
^ ’ . 

'^Combust. An astrological term used of a planet when so near the sun as to 
be obscured by it. 

^Nostradamus. Michel de Notredame, a French astrologer of the sixteenth 
century. 


215 


Quentin Durward 

philosopher, “and abandoned the court of Buda for that of 
Plessis, it was with the resolution to place at the command of 
my royal patron whatever my art had that might be of service 
to him.” 

“Enough, good Martivalle—I pray thee attend to the 
import of this question.” He proceeded to read from the 
paper in his hand: “A person having on hand a weighty con¬ 
troversy, which is like to. draw to debate either by law or by 
force of arms, is desirous, for the present, to seek accommoda¬ 
tion by a personal interview with his antagonist. He desires 
to know what day will be propitious for the execution of such 
a purpose; also what is likely to be the success of such a 
negotiation, and whether his adversary will be moved to 
answer the confidence thus reposed in him with gratitude and 
kindness., or may rather be likely to abuse the opportunity and 
advantage which such meeting may afford him?” 

“It is an important question,” said Martivalle, when the' 
King had done reading, “and requires that I should set a 
planetary figure, and give it instant and deep consideration.” 

“Let it be so, my good father in the sciences, and thou 
shalt know what it is to oblige a King of France. We are 
determined, if the constellations forbid not—and our own 
humble art leads us to think that they approve our purpose— 
to hazard something, even in our own person, to stop these 
anti-Christian wars.” 

“May the saints forward your Majesty’s pious intent,” 
said the astrologer, “and,guard your sacred person!” 

“Thanks, learned father. Here is something, the while, to 
enlarge your curious library.” 

He placed under one of the volumes a small purse of gold ; 
for economical even in his superstitions, Louis conceived the 
astrologer sufficiently bound to his service by the pensions he 
had assigned him, and thought himself entitled to the use of 
his skill at a moderate rate, even upon great exigencies. 

Louis, having thus, in legal phrase, added a refreshing 
fee to his general retainer, turned from him to address Dur- 


216 


Quentin Durward 

ward. “Follow me,” he said, “my bonny Scot, as one chosen 
by destiny and a monarch to accomplish a bold adventure. All 
must be got ready that thou ma 3 ^st put foot in stirrup the very 
instant the bell of St. iVIartin’s tolls twelve. One minute 
sooner, one minute later, were to forfeit the favourable aspect 
of the constellations which smile on your adventure.” 

Thus saying, the King left the apartment, followed by his 
young Guardsman; and no sooner were they gone than the 
astrologer gave way to very different feelings from those 
which seemed to animate him during the royal presence. 

“The niggardly slave!” he said, weighing the purse in his 
hand, for, being a man of unbounded expense, he had almost 
constant occasion for money—the base, sordid scullion I A 
coxswain’s wife would give more to know that her husband 
had crossed the narrow seas in safety. He acquire any tincture 
of humane letters! yts, when prowling foxes and yelling 
wolves become musicians. He read the glorious blazoning of 
the firmament! ay, when sordid moles shall become lynxes. 
Post tot p?'07nissa —after so many promises made, to entice me 
from the court of the magnificent Matthias, where Hun and 
Turk,'Christian and infidel, the Czar of Muscovia and the 
Cham of Tartary themselves, contended to load me with 
gifts, doth he think I am to abide in this old castle, like a 
bullfinch in a cage, fain to sing as oft as he chooses to whistle, 
and all for seed and water? Not so— aut inveniarn viam, aut 
faciarn: I will discover or contrive a remedy. The Cardinal 
Balue is politic and liberal; this query shall to him, and it 
shall be his Eminence’s own fault if the stars speak not as he 
would have them.” 

He again took the despised guerdon and weighed it in his 
hand. “It may be,” he said,, “there is some jewel or pearl of 
price concealed in this paltry case. I have heard he can be 
liberal even to lavishness when it suits his caprice or interest.” 

He emptied the purse, which contained neither, more nor 
less than ten gold pieces. The indignation of the astrologer 
was extreme. “Thinks he that for such paltry rate of hire 


217 


Quentin Durward 

I will practice that celestial science which I have studied with 
the Armenian abhot of Istrahoff, who had not seen the sun for 
forty years; with the Greek Dubravius, who is said to have 
raised the dead, and have even visited the Scheik Ebn Hali ^ in 
his cave in the deserts of Thebais? No, by Heaven! he that 
contemns art shall perish through his own ignorance. Ten 
pieces! a pittance which I am half ashamed to offer to 
Toinette, to buy her new breast-laces.” 

So saying, the indignant sage nevertheless plunged the 
contemned pieces of gold into a large pouch which he wore at 
his girdle, which Toinette and other abettors of lavish expense 
generally contrived to empty faster than the philosopher, with 
all his art, could find means of filling. 

^Scheik Ebn Hali. An Arab astrologer of the eleventh century; Scheik. 
equivalent to sheik, chief. 



CHAPTER XIV. 


TfiE JOURNEY 

I see thee yet, fair France: thou favour’d land 
Of art and nature, thou art still before me; 

Thy sons, to whom their labour is a sport. 

So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute; 

Thy sunburnt daughters, with their laughing eyes 
And glossy raven-locks. But favour’d France, 

Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell, 

In ancient times as now. 

Anonymous. 

Avoiding all conversation with any one, for such was his 
charge, Quentin Durward proceeded hastily to array himself 
in a strong but plain cuirass, with thigh and arm pieces, and 
placed on his head a good steel cap without any visor. To 
these was added a handsome cassock^ of chamois leather, finely 
dressed, and laced down the seams with some embroidery, such 
as might become a superior officer in a noble household. 

These were brought to his apartment by Oliver, who, 
with his quiet, insinuating smile and manner, acquainted him 
that his uncle had been summoned to mount guard purposely 
that he might make no inquiries concerning these mysterious 
movements. 

“Your excuse will be made to 3^our kinsman,” said Oliver, 
smiling again; “and, my dearest son, when you return safe 
from the execution of this pleasing trust, I doubt not you will 
be found worthy of such promotion as will dispense with your 
accounting for your motions to any one,, while it will place 
you at the head of those who must render an account of theirs 
to you.” 

^Cassock. A military cloak. 


218 


Quentin Durward 


219 


So spoke Oliver le Diable, calculating, probably, in his 
own mind the great chance there was that the poor youth 
whose hand he squeezed affectionately as he spoke must 
necessarily encounter death or captivity in the commission 
entrusted to his charge. He added to his fair words a small 
purse of gold, to defray necessary expenses on the road, as a 
gratuity on the King’s part. 

At a few minutes before twelve at midnight, Quentin, 
according to his directions, proceeded to the second court5^ard, 
and paused under the Dauphin’s Tower, which, as the reader 
knows, was assigned for the temporary residence of the 
Countesses of Croye. He found, at this place of rendezvous, 
the men and horses appointed to compose the retinue, leading 
two Sumpter mules already loaded with baggage, and holding 
three palfreys for the two countesses and a faithful waiting- 
woman, with a stately war-horse for himself, whose steel-plated 
saddle glanced in the pale moonlight. Not a word of recog¬ 
nition was spoken on either side. The men sat still in their 
saddles, as if they were motionless; and by the same imperfect 
light Quentin saw with pleasure that they were all armed, 
and held long lances in their hands. They were only three 
in number; but one of them whispered to Quentin, in a 
strong Gascon accent, that their guide was to join them 
be5'ond Tours.” 

Meantime, lights glanced to and fro at th^ lattices of the 
tower, as if' there was bustle and preparation among its 
inhabitants. At length, a small door, which led from the 
bottom of the tower to the court, was unclosed, and three 
females came forth, attended by a man wrapped in a* cloak. 
They mounted in silence the palfreys which stood prepared 
for them, while their attendant on foot led the way, and gave 
the passwords and signals to the watchful guards, whose posts 
they passed in succession. Thus they at length reached the 
exterior of these formidable barriers. Here the man on foot 
who had hitherto acted as their guide, paused, and spoke low 
and earnestly to the two foremost females. 


220 Quentin Durward 

“May Heaven bless you, sire,” said a voice which thrilled 
upon Quentin Durward’s ear, “and forgive you, even if your 
purposes be more interested than your words express! To be 
placed in safety under the protection of the good Bishop of 
Liege is the utmost extent of my desire.” 

The person whom she thus addressed muttered an inaudible 
answer and retreated back through the barrier-gate,, while 
Quentin thought that, by the moon-glimpse, he recognised in 
him the King himself, whose anxiety for the departure of his 
guests had probably induced him to give his presence, in case 
scruples should arise on their part or difficulties on that of the 
guards of the castle. 

When the riders were beyoncj the castle, it was necessary 
for some time to ride with great precaution, in order to avoid 
the pitfalls, snares, and similar contrivances which were 
placed for the annoyance of strangers. The Gascon was, 
however, completely possessed of, the clue to this labyrinth, 
and in a quarter of an hour’s riding they found themselves 
beyond the limits of Plessis le Parc, and not far distant from 
the city of Tours. 

The moon, which had now extricated herself from the 
clouds through which she was formerly wading, shed a full 
sea of glorious light upon a landscape equally glorious. They 
saw the princely Loire rolling his majestic tide through the 
richest plain in France, and sweeping along between banks 
ornamented with towers and terraces, and with olives and 
vineyards. They saw the walls of the city of Tours, the 
ancient capital of Touraine, raising their portal towers and 
embattlements white in the moonlight, while from within 
their circle rose the immense Gothic mass which the devotion 
of the sainted Bishop Perpetuus erected as early as the 5 th 
century, and which the zeal of Charlemagne and his succes¬ 
sors had enlarged with such architectural splendour as rendered 
it the most magnificent church in France. The towers of the 
church of St. Gatien were also visible, and the gloomy 


221 


Quentin Durward 

strength of the castle, which was said to have been, in ancient 
times, the residence of the Emperor Valentiniand 

Even the circumstances in which he was placed, though of 
a nature so engrossing, did not prevent the wonder and delight 
with which the young Scottishman, accustomed to the waste 
though impressive landscape of his own mountains, and the 
poverty even of his country’s most stately scenery, looked on a 
scene which art and nature seemed to have vied in adorning 
with their richest splendour. But he was recalled to the 
business of the moment by the voice of the elder lady, pitched 
at least an octave higher than those soft tones which bid adieu 
to King Louis, demanding to speak with the leader of the 
band. Spurring his horse forward, Quentin respectfully pre¬ 
sented himself to the ladies in that capacity, and thus under¬ 
went the interrogatories of the Lady Hameline. 

“What was his name, and what his degree?” 

He told both. 

“Was he perfectly acquainted with the road?” 

“He could not,” he replied, “pretend to much knowledge 
of the route, but he was furnished with full instructions, and 
he was, at their first resting-place, to be provided with a guide 
in all respects competent to the task of directing their farther 
journey; meanwhile, a horseman who had just joined them, 
and made the number of their guard four, was to be their 
guide for the first stage.” 

“And wherefore were you selected for such a duty, young 
gentleman?” said the lady. “I am told you are the same 
youth who was lately upon guard in the gallery in which we 
met the Princess of France. You seem young and inexperi¬ 
enced for such a charge; a stranger, too, in France, and 
speaking the language as a foreigner.” 

“I am bound to obey the commands of the King, madam, 
but am not qualified to reason on them,” answered the young 
soldier. 

“Are you of noble birth ?” demanded the same querist. 

^Emperor Valentinian. Valentinian I (364-375). During his reign, this 
emperor was largely engaged in campaigns against Germans, Burgundians, and 
Franks. 


222 


Quentin Durward 

“I may safely affirm so, madam,” replied Quentin. 

“And are you not,” said the younger lady, addressing him 
in her turn, but with a timorous accent, “the same whom I 
saw when I was called to wait upon the King at yonder inn?” 

Lowering his voice, perhaps from similar feelings of 
timidit)^,, Quentin answered in the affirmative. 

“Then, methinks,- my cousin,” said the Lady Isabelle, 
addressing the Lady Hameline., “we must be safe under this 
young gentleman’s safeguard; he looks not, at least, like one 
to whom the execution of a plan of treacherous cruelty upon 
two helpless women could be wdth safety entrusted. 

“On my honour, madam,” said Durward, by the fame of 
my house, by the bones of my ancestry, I could not for France 
and Scotland, laid into one, be guilty of treachery or cruelty 
towards you!” 

“You speak well, young man,” said the Lady Hameline, 
“but we are accustomed to hear fair speeches from the King of 
France and his agents. It was by these that we were induced, 
when the protection of the Bishop of Liege might have been 
attained with less risk than now, or when we might have 
thrown ourselves on that of Wenceslaus of Germany or of 
Edward of England, to seek refuge in France. And in what 
did the promises of the King result? In an obscure and 
shameful concealing of us, under plebeian names, as a sort of 
prohibited wares, in yonder paltry hostelry, when we, who, as 
thou knowest, Marthon (addressing her domestic), never put 
on our head-tire save under a canopy, and upon a dais of three 
degrees, were compelled to attire ourselves standing on the 
simple floor, as if we had been two milkmaids.” 

Marthon admitted that her lady spoke a most melancholy 

truth. ,, 

“I would that had been the sorest evil, dear kinswoman, 
said the Lady Isabelle; “I could gladly have dispensed with 
state.” 

“But not with society,” said the elder countess; that, my 
sweet cousin, was impossible.” 


Quentin Durward 223 

“I would have dispensed with all, my dearest kinswoman,” 
answered Isabelle, in a voice which penetrated to the very 
heart of her young conductor and guard—“with all, for a safe 
and honourable retirement. I wish not—God knows, I* never 
wished—to occasion war betwixt P'rance and my native Bur¬ 
gundy, or that lives should be lost for such as I am. I only 
Implored permission to retire to the convent of Marmoutler or 
to any other holy sanctuary.” 

“You spoke then like a fool, my cousin,” answered the 
elder lady, “and not like a daughter of my noble brother. It 
i^ well there is still one alive who hath some of the spirit of 
the noble house of Croye. How should a high-born lady be 
known from a sunburnt milkmaid save that spears are broken 
for the one and only hazel-poles shattered for the other? I 
tell you, maiden, that while I was in the very earliest bloom, 
scarcely older than yourself, the famous passage of arms at 
Haflinghem was held in my honour; the challengers were 
four, the assailants so many as twelve. It lasted three days, 
and cost the lives of two adventurous knights, the fracture of 
one back-bone, one collar-bone, three legs and two arms, 
besides flesh-wounds and bruises beyond the heralds’ counting; 
and thus have the ladies of our house ever been honoured. 
Ah! had you but half the heart of your noble ancestry, you 
would find means at some court, where ladies’ love and fame 
in arms are still prized, to maintain a tournament, at which 
3'our hand should be the prize, as was that of your great¬ 
grandmother of blessed memory at the spear-running of 
Strasbourg; and thus should you gain the best lanc€ in 
Europe to maintain the rights of the house of Croye, both 
against the oppression of Burgundy and the policy of France.” 

“But, fail kinswoman,” answered the younger countess, 
“I have been told by my old nurse that, although the Rhine- 
grave^ was the best lance at the great tournament at Stras¬ 
bourg, and so won the hand of my respected ancestor, yet the 

^RhineRrave. Title of the feudal lord of the Gau or county of the Rhine 
Graf, in German, means Count, 


224 Quentin Durward 

match was no happy one, as he used often to scold, and some¬ 
times even to beat my great-grandmother of blessed memory. 

“And wherefore not?” said the elder countess, in her 
romantic enthusiasm for the profession of chivalry—“why 
should those victorious arms, accustomed to deal blows when 
abroad, be bound to restrain their energies at home? A thou¬ 
sand times rather would I be beaten twice a-day by a husband 
whose arm was as much feared by others as by me than be the 
wife of a coward, who dared neither to lift hand to his wife 
nor to any one else!” 

should wish you joy of such an active mate, fair aunt, 
replied Isabelle, “without envying you; for if broken bones 
be lovely in tourneys, there is nothing less amiable in ladies’ 
bower.” 

“Nay, but the beating is no necessary consequence of 
wedding with a knight of fame in arms,” said the Lady 
Hameline; “though it is true that our ancestor of blessed 
memory, the Rhinegrave Gottfried,, was something rough- 
tempered, and addicted to the use of Rheinivein. The very 
perfect knight is a lamb among ladies and a lion among lances. 
There was Thibault of Montigni—God be with him!—he 
was the kindest soul alive, and not only was he never so dis¬ 
courteous as to lift hand against his lady, but by our good 
dame, he who beat all enemies without doors found a fair foe 
who could belabour him within. Well, ’twas his own fault. 
He was one of the challengers at the passage of HaHinghem, 
and so well bestirred himself that, if it had pleased Heaven, 
and your grandfather, there might have been a 
Montigni who had used his gentle nature more gently.” 

The Countess Isabelle, who had some reason to dread this 
passage of Haflinghem, it being a topic upon which her aunt 
was at all times very diffuse, suffered the conversation to 
drop; and Quentin, with the natural politeness of one who 
has been gently nurtured, dreading lest his presence might be 
a restraint on their conversation, rode forward to join the 
guide., as if to ask him some questions concerning the route. 


Quentin Durward > 225 

Meanwhile, the ladies continued their journey in silence, 
or in such conversation as is not worth narrating, until day 
began to break; and as they had been on horseback for several 
hours, Quentin, anxious lest they should be fatigued, became 
impatient to know their distance from the nearest resting- 
place. 

“I will show it you,” answered the guide, “in half an 
hour.” 

“And then you leave us to other guidance?” continued 
Quentin. 

“Even so, seignior archer,” replied the man; “my journeys 
are always short and straight. When you and others, seignior 
archer, go by the bow, I always go by the cord.” 

The moon had by this time long been down, and the lights 
of dawn were beginning to spread bright and strong in the 
east, and to gleam on the bosom of a small lake, on the verge 
of which they had been riding for a short space of time. This 
lake lay in the midst of a wide plain, scattered over with* single 
trees, groves, and thickets; but which might be yet termed 
open, so that objects began to be discerned with sufficient 
accuracy. Quentin cast his eye on the person whom he rode 
beside, and under the shadow of a slouched overspreading hat, 
which resembled the sombrero of a Spanish peasant, he recog¬ 
nised the facetious features of the same Petit-Andre whose 
fingers, .not long since, had, in concert with those of his lugu¬ 
brious brother, Trois-Eschelles, been so unpleasantly active 
, about his throat. Impelled by aversion not altogether unmixed 
with fear (for in his own country the executioner is regarded 
with almost superstitious horror), which his late parrow 
escape had not diminished, Durward instinctively moved his 
horse’s head to the right, and pressing him at the same time 
w:ith the spur, made a demi-volte, which separated him eight 
feet from his hateful companion. 

“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” exclaimed Petit-Andre;”by our Lady of 
the Greve, our young soldier remembers us of old. What! 
comrade, you bear no malice, I trust? Every one wins his 


226 Quentin Durward 

bread in this country. No man need be ashamed of having ! 
come through my hands, for I will do my work with any j 
that ever tied a living weight to a dead tree. And God hath j 
given me grace to be such a merry fellow withal. Ha! ha! ha! j 
I could tell you such jests I have cracked between the foot of | 
the ladder and the top of the gallows, that, by my halidome, I 
have been obliged to do my job rather hastily, for fear the 
fellows should die with laughing, and so shame my mystery!” 

As he thus spoke, he edged his horse sideways, to regain 
the interval which the Scot had left between them, saying at 
the same time, “Come, seignior archer, let there be no unkind¬ 
ness betwixt us! For my part, I always do my duty without 
malice, and with a light heart, and I never love a man better 
than when I have put my scant-of-wind collar_ about his neck, 
to dub him knight of the order of St. PatibulariusC^ as the 
provost’s chaplain, the worthy Father Vaconeldiablo," is wont 
to call the patron saint of the provostry.” 

“teep back, thou wretched object!” exclaimed Quentin, 
as the finisher of the law again sought to approach him closer, 
“or I shall be tempted to teach you the distance that should 
be betwixt men of honour and such an outcast.” 

' “La you there, how hot you are!” said the fellow. “Had 
3-ou said men of honesty, there had been some savour of truth 
in it; but for men of honour, good lack, I have to deal with 
them every day, as nearly and closely as I was about to do 
business with you. But peace be with you, and keep your com- i 
pany to jourself. I would have bestowed a flagon of Auvernat 
upon you to wash away every unkindness; but ’tis like you 
scorn my courtesy. Well. Be as churlish as j'ou list; I nevei 
quarrel with my customers—my jerry-come-tumbles, my 
merry dancers, my little playfellows, as Jacques Butcher ^ says 
to his lambs—those, in fine, who, like your seigniorship, have 
H. E. M. P. written on their foreheads. No—no, let them 

^St. Patibularius. Derived from Latin patibuhim, a fork-shaped gibbet. 

^Father Vaconeldiablo. Doubtless for Baco el Diablo. Bacchus the Devil. 

^Jacques Butcher. Compare “Saunders Steed,” page 120; an illustration of 
the way in which many surnames originated. 




Quentin DuRward 


227 


use me as they list, they shall have my good service at last; 
and yourself shall see, w^hen you next come under Petit- 
Andre’s hands, that he knows how to forgive an injury.” 

So saying, and summing up the whole with a provoking 
wink and such an inter]ectional tchick as men quicken a dull 
horse with, Petit-Andre drew off to the other side of the path, 
and left the youth to digest the taunts he had treated him with 
as his proud Scottish stomach best might. A strong desire had 
Quentin to have belaboured him while the staff of his lance 
could hold together; but he put a restraint on his passion, 
recollecting that a brawl with such a character could be 
creditable at no time or place, and that a quarrel of any kind, 
on the present occasion, would be a breach of duty, and might 
involve the most perilous consequences. He therefore swal¬ 
lowed his wrath at the ill-timed and professional jokes of 
Alons. Petit-Andre, and contented himself with devoutly 
hoping that they had not reached the ears of his fair charge, 
on which they could not be supposed to make an impression in 
favour of himself, as one obnoxious to such sarcasms. But he 
was speedily aroused from such thoughts by the cry of both 
the ladies at once, “Look back—look back! For the love of 
Heaven look to yourself and us; we are pursued!” 

Quentin hastily looked back, and saw that two armed men 
were in fact following them,, and riding at such a pace as must 
soon bring them up with their party. “It can,” he said, “be 
only some of the provostry making their rounds in the forest. 
“Do thou look,” he said to Petit-Andre, “and see what they 
may be.” 

Petit-Andre obeyed; and rolling himself jocosely in the 
saddle after he had made his observations, replied, “These, 
fair sir, are neither your comrades nor mine—neither archers 
nor marshaPs-men; for I think they wear helmets, with 
visors lowered, and gorgets of the same. A plague upon these 
gorgets, of all other pieces of armour! I have fumbled with 
them an hour before I could undo the rivets.” 

“Do you, gracious ladies,” said Durward, without attend- 


228 


Quentin Durward 

ing to Petit-Andre, “ride forward, not so fast as to raise an 
opinion of your being in flight, and yet fast enough to avail 
yourselves of the impediment which I shall presently place 
between you and these men who follow us. 

The Countess Isabelle looked to their guide, and then 
whispered to her aunt, who spoke to Quentin thus We 
have confidence in your care, fair archer, and will rather abide 
the risk of whatever may chance in your company than we will 
go onward with that man, whose mien is, we think, of no good 
augury.” 

“Be it as you will, ladies,” said the youth. “There are but 
two who come after us; and though they be knights, as their 
arms seem to show, the>r shall, if they have any evil purpose, 
learn how a Scottish gentleman can do his devoir ^ in the pres¬ 
ence and for the defence of such as you. Which of you there,” 
he continued, addressing the guards whom he commanded, “is 
willing to be my comrade, and to break a lance with these 
gallants ?” 

Two of the men obviously faltered in resolution; but the 
third, Bertrand Guyot, swore “that, cap de DiouJ^ were they 
knights of King Arthur’s Round Table, he would try their 
mettle for the honour of Gascony.” 

While he spoke, the two knights—for they seemed of no 
less rank—came up with the rear of the party, in which 
Quentin, with his sturdy adherent, had by this time stationed 
himself. They were fully accoutered in excellent armour of 
polished steel, without any device by which they could be 
distinguished. 

One of them, as they approached, called out to Quentin, 
“Sir squire, give place; we come to relieve you of a charge 
which is above your rank and condition. You will do well to 
leave these ladies in our care, who are fitter to wait upon 
them, especially as we know that in yours they are little better 
than captives.” ' 


^Devoir. Duty. 

*Cc/» de Diou. God’s head; cap from Latin caput. 


Quentin Durward 229 

“In return to your demand, sirs,” replied Durward, 
“know, in the first place, that I am discharging the duty 
imposed upon me by my present sovereign; and next, that 
however unworthy I may be, the ladies desire to abide under 
my protection.” 

“Out, sirrah!” exclaimed one of the champions; “will you, 
a wandering beggar, put yourself on terms of resistance 
against belted knights?” 

“They are indeed terms of resistance,” said Quentin, 
“since they oppose your insolent and unlawful aggression; 
and if there be difference of rank between us, which as yet I 
know not, your discourtesy has done it away. Draw your 
sword, or, if you will use the lance, take ground for your 
career.” 

While the knights turned their horses and rode back to the 
; distance of about a hundred and fifty yards, Quentin, looking 
I to the ladies, bent low on his saddle-bow, as if desiring their 
favourable regard, and as they streamed towards him their 
kerchiefs in token of encouragement, the two assailants had 
gained the distance necessary for their charge. 

Calling to the Gascon to bear himself like a man, Dur¬ 
ward put his steed into motion ; and the four horsemen met in 
full career in the midst of the ground which at first separated 
them. The shock was fatal to the poor Gascon; for his 
adversary, aiming at his face, which was undefended by a 
visor, ran him through the eye into the brain, so that he fell 
dead from his horse. 

On the other hand, Quentin, though labouring under the 
same disadvantage, swayed himself in the saddle so dexterously 
that the hostile lance, slightly scratching his cheek, passed over 
his right shoulder; while his own spear, striking his antagonist 
? fair upon the breast, hurled him to the ground. Quentin 
jumped off to unhelm his ^fallen opponent; but the other 
knight, who had never yet ‘spoken, seeing the fortune of his 
companion, dismounted still more speedily than Durward, 
and bestriding his friend, who lay senseless, exclaimed, “In the 



230 Quentin Durward 

name of God and St. Martin, mount, good fellow, and get 
thee gone with thy woman’s ware! Ventre St. Gris, they 
have caused mischief enough this morning.” 

“By your leave, sir knight,” said Quentin, who could not 
brook the menacing tone in which this advice was given, “I 
will first see whom I have had to do with, and learn who is to 
answer for the death of my comrade.” 

“That shalt thou never live to know or to tell,” answered 
the knight. “Get thee back in peace, good fellow. If we were 
fools for interrupting'your passage, we have had the worst, 
for thou hast done more evil than the lives of thou and thy 
whole band could repay. Nay, if thou wilt have it (for 
Quentin now drew his sword and advanced on him), take it 
with a vengeance!” 

So saying he dealt the Scot such a blow on the helmet as 
till that moment, though bred where good blows were plenty, 
he had only read of in romance. It descended like a thunder¬ 
bolt, beating down the guard which the young soldier had 
raised to protect his head, and reaching his helmet of proof, 
cut it through so far as to touch his hair, but without farther 
injury; while Durward, dizzy, stunned, and beaten down on 
one knee, was for an instant at the mercy of the knight, had 
it pleased him to second his blow. But compassion for 
Quentin’s youth, or admiration of his courage, or a generous 
love of fair play, made him withhold from taking such advant¬ 
age; while Durward, collecting himself, sprung up and 
attacked his antagonist with the energy of one determined 
to conquer or die, and at the same time with the presence of 
mind necessary for fighting the quarrel out to the best advant¬ 
age. Resolved not again to expose himself to such dreadful 
blows as he had just sustained, he employed the advantage of 
superior agility, increased by the comparative lightness of his 
armour, to harass his antagonist, by traversing on all sides, 
with a suddenness of motion and rapidity of attack against 


^Ventre St. Gris. Equivalent to “body of Christ.” 


Quentin Durward 


231 


which the knight in his heavy panoply found it difficult to 
defend himself without much fatigue. 

It was in vain that this generous antagonist called aloud 
to Quentin, “That there now remained no cause of fight 
betwixt them, and that he was loth to be constrained to do 
him injury.” Listening only to the suggestions of a passionate 
wish to redeem the shame of his temporary defeat, Durward 
continued to assail him with the rapidity of lightning—now 
menacing him with the edge, now with the point of his sword; 
and ever keeping such an eye on the motions of his opponent, 
of whose superior strength he had had terrible proof,, that he 
was ready to spring backward, or aside, from under the blows 
of his tremendous weapon. 

“Now the devil be with thee for an obstinate and pre¬ 
sumptuous fool,,” muttered the knight, “that cannot be quiet 
till thou art knocked on the head!” So saying, he changed his 
mode of fighting, collected himself as if to stand on the defen¬ 
sive, and seemed contented with parrying, instead of returning, 
the blows which Quentin unceasingly aimed at him, with the 
internal resolution that, the instant when either loss of breath 
or any false or careless pass of the young soldier should give 
an opening, he would put an end to the fight by a single blow. 
It is likely he might have succeeded in this artful policy, but 
Fate had ordered it otherwise. 

The duel was still at the hottest, when a large party of 
horse rode up, crying, “Hold, in the King’s name!” Both 
champions stepped back; and Quentin saw with surprise that 
his captain. Lord Crawford, was at the head of the party who 
had thus interrupted their combat. There was also Tristan 
I’Hermite, with two or three of his followers; making, in all, 
perhaps twenty horse. 



CHAPTER XV. 


THE GUIDE 

He was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 

And one descended from those dread magicians, 

Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt in Goshen, 

With Israel and her Prophet—matching rod 
With his the sons of Levi’s—and encountering 
Jehovah’s miracles with incantations. 

Till upon Egj^t came the avenging angel. 

And those proud sages wept for their first-born, 

As wept the unletter’d peasant. 

Anonymous. 

The arrival of Lord Crawford and his guard put an 
immediate end to the engagement which we endeavoured to 
describe in the last chapter; and the knight, throwing off his 
helmet, hastily gave the old lord his sword, saying, “Craw¬ 
ford, I render myself. But hither, and lend me your ear—a 
word, for God’s sake—save the Duke of Orleans!” 

“How! what? the Duke of Orleans!” exclaimed the 
Scottish commander. “How came this, in the name of the 
foul fiend? It will ruin the callant^ with the King for ever 
and a day.” 

“Ask no questions,” said Dunois, for it was no other than 
he; “it was all my fault. See, he stirs. I came forth but to 
have a snatch at yonder damsel, and make myself a landed 
and a married man, and see what is come on’t. Keep back 
your canaille f let no man look upon him. So saying, he 
opened the visor of Orleans, ‘and threw water on his face, 
which was afforded by the neighbouring lake. 

Quentin Durward, meanwhile, stood like one planet- 
struck, so fast did new adventures pour in upon him. He had 

^Callanl. (Scotch). Youth, fellow. 

^Canaille. (French). A low mob 


2^2 



1 Quentin Durward 233 

now, as the pale features of his first antagonist assured 
I him, borne to the earth the first prince of the blood in France, 
and had measured swords with her best champion, the cele¬ 
brated Dunois—both of them achievements honourable in 
themselves, but whether they might be called good service to 
the King, or so esteemed by him, was a very different question. 

The duke had now recovered his breath, and was able to 
I sit up and give attention to what passed betwixt Dunois and 
! Crawford, while the former pleaded eagerly that there was no 
I occasion to mention in the matter the name of the most noble 
Orleans, while he was ready to take the whole blame on his 
own shoulders, and to avouch that the duke had only come 
thither in friendship to him. 

Lord Crawford continued listening, with his eyes fixed on 
the ground, and from time to time he sighed and shook his 
head. At length he said, looking up, “Thou knowest, Dunois, 
that for thy father’s sake, as well as thine own, I would full 
fain do thee a service.” 

“It is not for myself I demand anything,” answered 
Dunois. “Thou hast my sword, and I am your prisoner; 
what needs more? But it is for this noble prince, the only 
hope of France, if God should call the Dauphin. He only 
came hither to do me a favour—in an effort to make my 
fortune—in a matter which the King had partly encouraged.” 

“Dunois,” replied Crawford, “if another had told me thou 
hadst brought the noble prince into this jeopardy to serve any 
, purpose of thine own, I had told him it was false. And now 
that thou dost pretend so thyself, I can hardly believe it is for 
the sake of speaking the truth.” 

“Noble Crawford,” said Orleans, who had now entirely 
' recovered from his swoon, “3'OU are too like in character to 
3^our friend Dunois not to do him justice. It was indeed /I 
that dragged him hither, most unwillingly, upon an enterprise 
of hare-brained passion, suddenly and rashly undertaken. 
Look on me all who will,” he added, rising up and turning to 
the soldiery; “I am Louis of Orleans, willing to pay the 




234 


Quentin Durward 

penalty of my own folly. 1 trust the King will limit his dis¬ 
pleasure to me, as it is but just. Meanwhile, as a child of 
France^ must not give up his sword to any one not even to 
you, brave Crawford—fare thee well, good steel.” 

So saying, he drew his sword from its scabbard and flung 
it into the lake. It went through the air like a stream of 
lightning, and sunk in the flashing waters, which speedily 
closed over it. All remained standing in irresolution and 
astonishment, so high was the rank, and so much esteemed 
was the character of the culprit; while, at the same time, all 
were conscious that the consequences of his rash enterprise, 
considering the views which the King had upon him, were 
likely to end in his utter ruin. 

Dunois was the first who spoke, and it was in the chiding 
tone of an offended and distrusted friend: ‘‘So! your High¬ 
ness hath judged it fit to cast away your best sword, in the 
same morning when it was your pleasure to fling aw^ay the 
King’s favour and to slight the friendship of Dunois? 

“My dearest kinsman,” said the duke, “when or how was 
it in my purpose to slight your friendship, by telling the truth, 
when it was due to your safety and my honour ?” 

“What had you to do with my safety, my most princely 
cousin, I would pray to know?” answered Dunois, gruffly. 
“What, in God’s name, was it to you if I had a mind to be 
hanged, or strangled, or flung into the Loire, or poniarded, or 
broke on the wheel, or hung up ^live in an iron cage, or buried 
alive in a castle fosse, or disposed of in any other w^ay in which 
it might please King Louis to get rid of his faithful subject? 
You need not wink and frowm, and point to Tristan I’Her- 
mite; I see the scoundrel as w^ell as you do. But it would 
not have stood so hard with me. And so much for my safety. 
And then for your own honour^—by the blush of St. IMag- 
dalene, I think the honour would have been to have missed 
this morning’s work, or kept it out of sight. Here has your 
Highness got yourself unhorsed by a wfild Scottish boy.” 

lA child of France. A prince of the blood; referring to his royal descent. 
Louis, first Duke of Orleans, was the younger son of Charles V. 



Quentin Durward 


235 


“Tut—tut!” said Lord Crawford ; never shame his High¬ 
ness for that. It is not the first time a Scottish boy hath broke 
a good lance. I am glad the youth hath borne him well.” 

“I will say nothing to the contrary,” said Dunois; “yet, 
had your lordship come something later than you did, there 
might have been a vacancy in your band of archers.” 

“Ay—ay,” answered Lord Craw^ford; “I can read your 
handwriting in that cleft morion.^ Some one take it from the 
lad, and give him a bonnet, which, with its steel lining, will 
keep his head better than that broken loom." And let me tell 
3'Our lordship, that your own armour of proof is not without 
some marks of good Scottish handwriting. But, Dunois, I must 
now request the Duke of Orleans and you to take horse and 
accompany me, as I have power and commission to convey you 
to a place different from that which my good-will might 
assign you.” 

“May I not speak one word, my Lord Crawford, to 3'on- 
der fair ladies?” said the Duke of Orleans. 

“Not one syllable,” answered Lord Crawford; “I am too 
much a friend of your Highness to permit such an act of 
folly.” Then addressing Quentin, he added, “You, young 
man, have done your duty. Go on to obey the charge with 
which 5^011 are entrusted.” 

“Under favour, my lord,” said Tristan, with his usual 
brutality of manner, “the youth must find another guide. I 
cannot do without Petit-Andre when there is so like to be 
business on hand for him.” 

“The young man,” said Petit-AndrC now coming for¬ 
ward, “has only to keep the path which lies straight before 
him and it will conduct him to a place where he will find the 
man who is to act as his guide. I would not for a thousand 
ducats be absent from my chief this day! I have hanged 
knights and squires many a one, and wealthy echevins,^ and 


^Morion. A steel cap without a visor. 

^Loom. A tool or utensil; some article in frequent use. 
^Echevins. Magistrates. 



236 Quentin Durward 

burgomasters to boot—even counts and marquisses have tasted 

of my handiwork; but, a-humph-” He looked at the 

duke, as if to intimate that he would have filled up the blank 
with “a prince of the blood!” ^“Ho, ho, ho! Petit-Andre, 
thou wilt be read of in chronicle!” 

“Do you permit your ruffians to hold such language in 
such a presence?” said Crawford, looking sternly at,Tristan. 

“Why do you not correct him yourself, my lord?” said 
Tristan, sullenly. 

“Because thy hand is the only one in this company that 
can beat him without being degraded by such an action. 

“Then rule your own men, my lord, and I will be answer- 
able for mine,” said the provost-marshal. 

Lord Crawford seemed about to give a passionate reply, 
but, as if he had thought better of it, turned his back short 
upon Tristan, and requesting the Duke of Orleans and 
Dunois to ride one on either hand of him, he made a signal of 
adieu to the ladies, and said to Quentin, “God bless thee, my 
child; thou hast begun thy service valiantly, though in an 
unhappy cause.” He was about to go off, when Quentin 
could hear Dunois whisper to Crawford, “Do you carry us to 
Plessis?” 

“No, my unhappy and rash friend,” answered Crawford, 
with a sigh, “to Loches.” 

“To Loches!” The name of a castle, or rather a prison, 
yet more dreaded than Plessis itself, fell like a death-toll upon 
the ear of the young Scotchman. He had heard it described 
as a place destined to the workings of those secret acts of 
cruelty with which even Louis shamed to pollute the interior 
of his own residence. There were in this place of terror 
dungeons under dungeons, some of them unknown even to the 
keepers themselves—living graves, to which men were con¬ 
signed with little hope of farther employment during the rest 
of their life than to breathe impure air and feed on bread and 
water. At this formidable castle were also those dreadful 
places of confinement called “cages,” in which the wretched 




237 


Quentin Durward 

prisoner could neither stand upright nor stretch himself at 
length—an invention, it is said, of the Cardinal Balue/ It is 
no wonder that the name of this place of horrors, and the con¬ 
sciousness that he had been partly the means of despatching 
thither two such illustrious victims, struck so much sadness 
into the heart of the young Scot that he rode for some time 
with his head dejected., his eyes fixed on the ground, and his 
heart filled with the most painful reflections. 

As he was now again at the head of the little troop, and 
pursuing the road which had been pointed out to him, the 
Lady Hameline had an opportunity to say to him— 

“Methinks, fair sir, you regret the victory which your 
gallantry has attained in our behalf?” 

There was something in the question which sounded like 
irony, but Quentin had tact enough to answer simply and with 
sincerity— 

“I can regret nothing that is done in the service of such 
ladies as you are; but, methinks, had it consisted with your 
safety, I had rather have fallen by the sword of so good a 
soldier as Dunois than have been the means of consigning 
that renowned knight and his unhappy chief, the Duke of 
Orleans, to yonder fearful dungeons.” 

“It was, then, the Duke of Orleans,” said the elder lady, 
turning to her niece. “I thought so, even at the distance from 
which we beheld the fray. You see, kinswoman, what we 
might have been, had this sly and avaricious monarch per¬ 
mitted us to be seen at his court. The first prince of the 
blood of France, and the valiant Dunois, whose name is known 
as wide as that of his herpic father! This young gentleman 
did his devoir bravely and well; but methinks ’tis pity that 
he did not succumb with honour, since his ill-advised gallantry 
has stood betwixt us and these princely rescuers.” 

The Countess Isabelle replied in a firm and almost a dis- 

^Cardinal Balue. He himself tenanted one of these dens for more than 
eleven years. 



238 


Quentin Durward 

pleased tone, with an energy, in short, which Quentin had not 
yet observed her use. 

“Madarri,” she said, “but that I know you jest, I would 
say your speech is ungrateful to our brave defender, to whom 
we owe more, perhaps, than jou are aware of. Had these 
gentlemen succeeded so far in their rash enterprise as to have 
defeated our escort, is it not still evident that, on the arrival 
of the Royal Guard, we must have shared their captivity? 
For my own part, I give tears, and will soon bestow masses, 
on the brave man who has fallen, and I trust,” she continued, 
more timidly, “that he who lives will accept my grateful 
thanks.” 

As Quentin turned his face towards her, to return the 
fitting acknowledgments, she saw the blood which streamed 
down on one side of his face, and exclaimed, in a tone of deep 
feeling, “Holy Virgin, he is wounded! he bleeds! Dismount, 
sir, and let your wound be bound up.” 

In spite of all that Durward could say of the slightness of 
his hurt, he was compelled to dismount, and to seat himself on 
a bank and unhelmet himself, while the Ladies of Croye, who, 
according to a fashion not as yet antiquated, pretended to some 
knowledge of leechcraft, washed the wound, stanched the 
blood and bound it with the kerchief of the younger countess., 
in order to exclude the air, for so their practice prescribed. 

In modern times, gallants seldom or never take wounds 
for ladies’ sake, and damsels on their side never meddle with 
the cure of wounds. Each has a danger the less. That which 
the men escape will be generally acknowledged; but the peril 
of dressing such a slight wound as that of Quentin’s, which 
involved nothing formidable or dangerous, was perhaps as real 
in its way as the risk of encountering it. 

We have already said the patient was eminently hand¬ 
some; and the removal of his helmet, or, more properly, of 
his morion, had suffered his fair locks to escape in profusion 
around a countenance in which the hilarity of youth was* 
qualified by a blush of modesty at once and pleasure. And 


239 


Quentin Durward 

then the feelings of the younger countess, when compelled to 
hold the kerchief to the wound, while her aunt sought in their 
baggage for some vulnerary^ remedy, were mingled at once 
with a sense of delicacy and embarrassment—a thrill of pity 
for the patient and of gratitude for his services, which exag¬ 
gerated, in her eyes, his good mien and handsome features. In 
short, this incident seemed intended by Fate to complete the 
mysterious communication which she had, by many petty and 
apparently accidental circumstances, established betwixt two 
persons who, though far different in rank and fortune, 
strongly resembled each other in youth, beauty, and the 
romantic tenderness of an affectionate disposition. It was no 
wonder, therefore, that from this moment the thoughts of the 
Countess Isabelle, already so familiar to his imagination, 
should become paramount in Quentin’s bosom, nor that, if the 
maiden’s feelings were of a less decided character, at least so 
far as known to herself, she should think of her young 
defender, to whom she had just rendered a service so interest¬ 
ing, with more emotion than of any of the whole band of 
high-born nobles who had for two years past besieged her 
with their adoration. Above all, when the thought of Campo- 
basso, the unworthy favourite of Duke Charles, with his 
hypocritical mien, his base, treacherous spirit, his wry neck, 
and his squint, occurred to her, his portrait was more dis¬ 
gustingly hideous than ever, and deeply did she resolve nW 
tyranny should make her enter into so hateful a union. 

In the meantime, whether the good Lady Hameline of 
Croye understood and admired masculine beauty as much as 
when she was fifteen years younger (for the good countess 
was at least thirty-five, if the records of that noble house speak 
the truth), or whether she thought she had done their young 
protector less justice than she ought, in the first view which 
she had taken of his services, it is certain that he began to find 
favour in her eyes. 

“My niece,” she said, “has bestowed on you a kerchief for 

» Vulnerary. From Latin vulnus, a wound. 


240 Quentin Durward 

the binding of your wound; I will give you one to grace your 
gallantry, and to encourage you in your farther progress in 
chivalry.” 

So saying, she gave him a richly embroidered kerchief of 
blue and silver, and pointing to the housing^ of her palfrey 
and the plumes in her riding-cap, desired him to observe that 
the colours were the same. 

The fashion of the time prescribed one absolute mode of 
receiving such a favour, which Quentin followed accordingly, 
by tying the napkin round his arm; yet his manner of acknow¬ 
ledgment had more of awkwardness and less of gallantry in it 
than perhaps it might have had at another time and in another 
presence; for though the wearing of a lady’s favour, given in 
such a manner, was merely a matter of general compliment, 
he would much rather have preferred the right of displaying 
on his arm that which bound the wound inflicted by the sword 
of Dunois. 

Meantime, they continued their pilgrimage, Quentin now 
riding abreast of the ladies, into whose society he seemed to be 
tacitly adopted. He did not speak much, however, being filled 
by the silent consciousness of happiness, which is afraid of giv¬ 
ing too strong vent to its feelings. The Countess Isabelle 
spoke still less, so that the conversation was chiefly carried on 
by the Lady Hameline, who showed no inclination to let it 
drop; for, to initiate the young archer, as she said, into the 
principles and practice of chivalry, she detailed to him, in full 
length, the passage of arms at Haflinghem, where she had 
distributed the prizes among the victors. 

Not much interested, I am sorry to say, in the description 
of this splendid scene, or in the heraldic bearings of the differ¬ 
ent Flemish and German knights, which the lady blazoned 
with pitiless accuracy, Quentin began to entertain sofne alarm 
lest he should have passed the place where his guide was to 
join him—a most serious disaster, and from w^hich, should it 


* Housing. Trappings. 


Quentin Durward 241 

really have taken place, the very worst consequences were to 
be apprehended. 

While he hesitated whether it would be better to send 
back one of his followers to see whether this might not be the 
case, he heard the blast of a horn, and looking in the direction 
from which the sound came, beheld a horseman riding very 
fast towards them. The low size and wild, shaggy, untrained 
state of the animal reminded Quentin of the mountain breed 
of horses in his own country; but this was much more finely 
limbed, and, with the same appearance of hardiness, was more 
rapid in its movements. The head particularly, which in the 
Scottish pony is often lumpish and heavy, was small and well 
placed in the neck of this animal, with thin jaws, full sparkling 
eyes, and expanded nostrils. 

The rider was even more singular in his appearance than 
the horse which he rode, though that was extremely unlike the 
horses of France. Although he managed his palfrey with 
great dexterity, he sat with his feet in broad stirrups, some¬ 
thing resembling shovels, so short in the leathers that his 
knees were well nigh as high as the pommel of his saddle. His 
dress was a red turban of small size, in which he wore a 
sullied plume, secured by a cl-asp of silver; his tunic, which 
was shaped like those of the Estradiots—a sort of troops whom 
the Venetians at that time levied in the provinces on the 
eastern side of their gulf— was green in colour and tawdrily 
laced with gqld; he wore very wide drawers o': trowsers of 
white, though none of the cleanest, which gathered beneath 
the knee, and his swarthy legs were quite bare, unless for the 
complicated laces which bound a pair of sandals on his feet; 
he had no spurs, the edge of his large stirrups being so sharp 
as to serve *to goad the horse in a very severe manner. In a 
crimson sash this singular horseman wore a dagger on the 
right side, and on the left a ‘short crooked Moorish sword; 
and by a tarnished baldric over the shoulder hung the horn 
which announced his approach. He had a swarthy and sun¬ 
burnt visage, with a thin beard, and piercing dark eyes, a 


242 


Quentin Durward 

well-formed mouth and nose, and other features which might 
have been pronounced handsome, but for the black elf-lock& 
which hung around his face, and the air of wildness and 
emaciation, which rather seemed to indicate a savage than a 
civilised man. 

“He also is a Bohemian!” said the ladies to each other. 
“Holy Mary, will the King again place confidence in these 
outcasts ?” 

“I will question the man, if it be your pleasure,” said 
Quentin, “and assure myself of his fidelity as I best may.” 

Durward, as well as the Ladies of Croye, had recognised 
in this man’s dress and appearance the habit and the manners 
of those vagrants with whom he had nearly been confounded 
by the hasty proceedings of Tniis-Eschelles and Petit-Andre, 
and he, too, entertained very natural apprehensions concerning 
the risk of reposing trust in one of that vagrant race. 

“Art thou come hither to seek us?” was his first question. 

The stranger nodded. 

“And for what purpose?” 

“To guide you to the palace of him of Liege.” 

“Of the bishop?” 

The Bohemian again nodded. 

“What token canst thou give me that we should yield 
credence to thee?” 

“Even the old rhyme, and no other,” answered the 
Bohemian— 


“The page slew the boar, 

The peer had the gloire.” 

“A true token,” said Quentin. “Lead on, good fellow; I 
will speak further with thee presently.” Then falling back to 
the ladies, he said, “I am convinced this man is the guide we 
are to expect, for he hath brought me a password known, 1 
think, but to the King and me. But I will discourse with 
him further, and endeavour to ascertain how far he is to be 
trusted.” 


CHAPTER XVL 


THE VAGRANT 

V 

I am as free as Nature first made man, 

Ere the base laws of servitude began, 

When wild in woods the noble savage ran. 

The Conquest of Granada. 

While Quentin held the brief communication with the 
ladies necessary to assure them that this extraordinary addition 
to them party was the guide whom they were to expect on the 
King’s part, he noticed, for he was as alert in observing the 
motions of the stranger as the Bohemian could be on his part, 
that the man not only turned his head aS far back as he could 
to peer at them, but that, wn'th a singular sort of agility more 
resembling that of a monkey than of a man,, he had screwed 
his whole person around on the saddle, so as to sit almost side¬ 
long upon the horse, for the /:onvenience, as it seemed, of 
watching them more attentively. 

Not greatly pleased with this manoeuvre, Quentin rode up 
to the Bohemian, and said to him, as he suddenly assumed his 
proper position on the horse, “Methinks, friend, you will 
prove but a blind guide if you look at the tail of your horse 
rather than his ears.” 

“And if I were actually blind,” answered the Bohemian, 
“I could not the less guide you through any country in this 
realm of France dr in those adjoining to it.” 

‘A'et you are no Frenchman born,” said the Scot. 

“I am not,” answered the guide. 

“What countryman, then, are you?” demanded Quentin., 

“I am of no country,” answered the guide. 

“How! of no country?” repeated the Scot. 


243 


244 , Quentin Durward 

“No,” answered the Bohemian,, “of none. I am a Zingaro, 
a Bohemian,, an Egyptian,^ or whatever the Europeans, in 
their different languages, may choose to call our people; but 
I have no country.” 

“Are you a Christian?” asked the Scotchman. 

The Bohemian shook his head. 

“Dog!” said Quentin, for there was little toleration in the r 
spirit of Catholicism in those days, “dost thou worship 
Mahound?”^ 

“No,” was the indifferent and concise answer of the guide, 
who neither seemed offended nor surprised at the young man’s 
violence of manner. 

“Are you a pagan, then, or what are you?” 

“I have no religion,” ^ answered the Bohemian. 

Durward started back; for, though he had heard o'f Sara¬ 
cens and idolaters, it had never entered into his ideas or 
belief that any body of men could exist who practised no mode 
of worship whatever. He recovered from his astonishment, 
to ask his guide where he usually dwelt. 

“Wherever I chance to be for the time,” replied the 
Bohemian. “I have no home.” 

“How do you guard your property?” 

“Excepting the clothes which I wear and the horse I ride 
on, I have no property.” 

“Yet you dress gaily and ride gallantly,” said Durward. 
“What are your means of subsistence?” 

“I eat when I am hungry, drink when I am thirsty, and 
have no other means of subsistence than chance throws in my 
way,” replied the vagabond. 

“Under whose laws do you live?” 

“I acknowledge obedience to none, but as it suits my 
pleasure or my necessities,” said the Bohemian. 


/ 


^An Egyptian. Whence is derived the word gypsy. 

^Mahound. Mohammed. 

3/ have no religion. See Note 16 .—Religion of the Bohemians. 



245 


Quentin Durward 

“Who is your leader, and commands you ?” 

“The father of our tribe, if I choose to obey him,” said the 
guide; “otherwise I have no commander.” 

“\ ou are then,” said the wondering querist, “destitute of 
all that other men are combined by: you have no law, no 
leader, no settled means of subsistence, no house or home. 
You have, may Heaven compassionate you, no country; and, 
may Heaven enlighten and forgive you, you have no God! 
What is it that remains to you, deprived of government, 
domestic happiness, and religion ?” 

“I have liberty,” said the Bohemian. “I crouch to no 
one—obey no one—respect no one. I go where I will—live 
as I can—and die when my day comes.” 

“But you are subject to instant execution, at the pleasure 
of the judge?” 

“Be it so,” returned the Bohemian; “I can but die so 
much the sooner.” 

“And to imprisonment also,” said the Scot; “and where 
then is your boasted freedom?” 

“In my thoughts,” said the Bohemian, “which no chains 
can bind; while yours, even when your limbs are free, remain 
fettered by your laws and your superstitions, your dreams of 
local attachment and your fantastic visions of civil policy. 
Such as I are free in spirit when our limbs are chained. You 
are imprisoned in mind,, even when your limbs are most at 
freedom.” 

“Yet the freedom of your thoughts,” said the Scot, 
“relieves not the pressure of the gyves ^ on your limbs.” 

“For a brief time that may be endured,” answered the 
vagrant; “and if within that period I cannot extricate myself, 
and fail of relief from my comrades, I can always die, and 
death is the most perfect freedom of all.” 

There was a deep pause of some duration, which Quentin 
at length broke by resuming his queries. 


^Gyves. Fetters for the legs. 


246 


Quentin Durward 

“Yours is a wandering race, unknown to the nations of 
Europe. Whence do they derive their origin ?” 

“1 may not tell 5 ^ou,” answered the Bohemian. 

“When will they relieve this kingdom from their presence, 
and return to the land from whence they came?” said the Scot. 

“When the day of their pilgrimage shall be accomplished,” 
replied his vagrant guide. 

“Are you not sprung from those tribes of Israel ^ which 
were carried into captivity beyond the great river Euphrates?’' 
said Quentin, who had not forgotten the lore which had been 
taught him at Aberbrothock. 

“Had we been so,” answered the Bohemian, “we had fol 
lowed their faith and practised their rites.” 

“What is thine own name?” said Durward. 

‘Yly proper name is only known to my brethren. Th( 
men beyond our tents call me Hayraddin Maugrabin, that is 
Hayraddin, the African Moor.” 

“Thau speakest too well for one who hath lived always in 
thy filthy horde,” said the Scot. 

“I have learned some of the knowledge of this land,” said 
Hayraddin. “When 1 was a little boy, our tribe was chased 
by the hunters after human flesh. An arrow went through my 
mother’s head, and she died. I was entangled in the blanket 
on her shoulders, and was taken by the pursuers. A priest 
begged me from the provost’s archers, and trained me up in 
Frankish learning for two or three years.” 

“How came you to part with him?” demanded Durward. 

“I stole money from him—even the. god which he wor¬ 
shipped,” answered Hayraddin, with perfect composure; “he 
detected me, and beat me; I stabbed him with my knife, fled 
to the woods, and was again* united to my people.” 

“Wretch!” said Durward, “did you murder your bene¬ 
factor?” 

“What had he to do to burden me with his benefits? The 

^Tribes of Israel. The Lost Tribes of Israel, so-called, from whom the 
despent of the Bohemians, or Gypsies, has been inferred, included the large num¬ 
ber of the Israelites who remained in Babylonia after their brethren had returned 
to Palestine, following the decree of Cyrus (B. C. 538). 


Quentin Durward 


247 


Zingaro boy was no house-bred cur, to dog the heels of his 
master, and crouch beneath his blows, fot scraps of food. He 
was the imprisoned wolf-whelp, which at the first opportunity 
broke his chain, rended his master, and returned to his 
wilderness.” 

There was another pause, when the young Scot, with a 
view of still farther investigating the character and purpose 
of this suspicious guide, asked Hayraddin, “Whether it was 
not true that his people,, amid their ignorance, pretended to a 
knowledge of futurity which was not given to the sages, 
philosophers, and divines of more polished society?” 

“We pretend to it,” said Hayraddin, “and it is with 
justice.” 

“How can it be that so high a gift is bestowed on so abject 
a race?” said Quentin. 

“Can I tell you?” answered Hayraddin. “Yes, I may 
indeed; but it is when you shall explain to me why the dog 
can trace the footsteps of a man, while man, the nobler 
animal, hath not power to trace those of the dog. These 
powers, which seem to )^ou so wonderful, are instinctive in.' 
our race. From the lines on the face and on the hand we can 
tell the future fate of those who consult us, even as surely as 
you know from the blossom of the tree in spring what fruit it 
will bear in the harvest.” 

“I doubt of your knowledge, and defy you to the proof.” 

“Defy me not, sir squire,” said Hayraddin Maugrabin. 
“I can tell you that, say what you will of your religion, the 
goddess whom you worship rides in this company.” 

“Peace!” said Quentin, in astonishment: “on thy life,, not 
a word farther, but in answer to what I ask thee. Canst thou 
be faithful ?” 

“I can; all men can,” said the Bohemian. 

“But wilt thou be faithful?” 

“Wouldst thou believe me the more should I swear it?” 
answered Maugrabin, with a sneer. 

“Thy life is in my hand,” said the young Scot. 


248 Quentin Durward 

“Strike, and see whether I fear to die,” answered the 
Bohemian. 

“Will money render thee a trusty guide?” demanded 
Durward. 

“If I be not such without it, no,” replied the heathen. 

“Then what will bind thee?” asked the Scot. 

“Kindness,” replied the Bohemian. 

“Shall I swear to show thee such, if thou art true guide to 
us on this pilgrimage?” 

“No,” replied Hayraddin, “it were extravagant waste of a 
commodity so rare. To thee I am bound already.” 

“How!” exclaimed Durward, more surprised than ever. 

“Remember the chestnut-trees on the banks of the Cher. 
The victim whose body thou didst cut down was my brother, 
Zamet, the Maugrabin. 

“And yet,” said Quentin, “I find you in correspondence 
with those very officers by whom your brother was done to 
death; for it was one of them who directed me where to meet 
with you—the same, doubtless, who procured yonder ladies 
your services as a guide.” 

“What can we do?” answered Hayraddin, gloomily. 
“These men deal with us as the sheep-dogs do with the flock: 
they protect us for a while, drive us hither and thither at their 
pleasure, and always end by guiding us to the shambles.” 

Quentin had afterwards occasion to learn that the Bohe¬ 
mian spoke truth in this particular, and that the provost-guard, 
employed to suppress the vagabond bands by which the king¬ 
dom was infested, entertained correspondence among them, 
and forebore, for a certain time, the exercise of their duty, 
which always at last ended in conducting their allies to the 
gallows. This is a sort of political relation between thief and 
officer, for the profitable exercise of their mutual professions, 
which has subsisted in all countries, and is by no means 
unknown to our own. 

Durward, parting from the guide, fell back to the rest of 
the retinue, very little satisfied with the character of Hay- 


249 


Quentin Durward 

raddin, and entertaining little confidence in the professions of 
gratitude which he had personally made to him. He pro¬ 
ceeded to sound the other two men who had been assigned 
him for attendants, and he was concerned to find them stupid, 
and as unfit to assist him with counsel as in the rencounter 
they had shown themselves reluctant to use their weapons. 

“It is all the better,” said Quentin to himself,, his spirit 
rising with the apprehended difficulties of his situation; “that 
lovely young lady shall owe all to me. What one hand—ay, 
and one head—can do, methinks I can boldly count upon. I 
have seen my father’s house on fire, and him and my brothers 
lying dead amongst the flames. I gave not an inch back, but 
fought it out to the last. Now I am two years older, and 
have the best and fairest cause to bear me well that ever 
kindled mettle within a brave man’s bosom.” 

Acting upon this resolution, the attention and activity 
which Quentin bestowed during the journey had in it some¬ 
thing that gave him the appearance of ubiquity. His principal 
and most favourite post was of course by the side of the ladies, 
who, sensible of his extreme attention to their safety, began 
to converse with him in almost the tone of familiar friendship, 
and appeared to take great pleasure in the naivete, yet shrewd¬ 
ness of his conversation. But Quentin did not suffer the 
fascination of this intercourse to interfere with the vigilant 
discharge of his duty. 

If he was often by the side of the countesses, labouring to 
describe to the natives of a level country the Grampian 
Mountains, and, above‘all, the beauties of Glen Houlakin, he 
was as often riding with Hayraddin in the front of the caval¬ 
cade, questioning him about the road and the resting-places, 
and recording his answers in his mind, to ascertain whether 
upon cross-examination he could discover anything like medi¬ 
tated treachery. As often again he was in the rear, endeavour¬ 
ing to secure the attachment of the two horsemen, by kind 
words, gifts, and promises of additional recompense when 
their task should be accomplished. 


250 


Quentin Durward 


In this way they travelled for more than a week, through 
bye-paths and unfrequented districts, and by circuitous routes, 
in order to avoid large towns. Nothing remarkable occurred, 
though they now and then met strolling gangs of Bohemians, 
who respected them as under the conduct of one of their tribe; 
straggling soldiers, or perhaps banditti, who deemed their 
party too strong to be attacked; or parties of the Mare- 
chaussee,^ as they would now be termed, whom Louis., who 
searched the wounds of the land with steel and cautery, 
employed to suppress the disorderly bands which infested the 
interior. These last suffered them to pursue their way unmo¬ 
lested, by virtue of a password with which Quentin had been 
furnished for that purpose by the King himself. 

Their resting-places were chiefly the monasteries, most of 
which were obliged by the rules of their foundation to receive 
pilgrims, under which character the ladies travelled, with 
hospitality, and without any troublesome inquiries into their 
rank and character, which most persons of distinction were 
desirous of concealing while in the discharge of their vows. 
The pretence of weariness was usually employed by the 
Countesses of Croye as an excuse for instantly retiring to rest, 
and Quentin, as their major-domo, arranged all that was 
necessary betwixt them and their entertainers with a shrewd¬ 
ness which saved them all trouble, and an alacrity that failed 
not to excite a corresponding degree of good-will on the part 
of those who were thus sedulously attended to. 

One circumstance gave Quentin peculiar trouble, which 
was the character and nation of his guide, who, as a heathen 
and an infidel vagabond, addicted, besides, to occult arts (the 
badge of all his tribe),, was often looked upon as a very 
improper guest for the holy resting-places at which the com¬ 
pany usually halted, and was not in consequence admitted 
within even the outer circuit of their walls save with extreme 
reluctance. This was very embarrassing; for, on the one 
hand, it was necessary to keep in good humour a man who 

^MarSrhaussee Horse patrol, police. 


Quentin Durward 


251 


was possessed of the secret of their expedition; and on the 
other, Quentin deemed it indispensable to maintain a vigilant 
though secret watch on Hayraddin’s conduct, in order that, as 
far as might be, he should hold no communication with any 
one without being observed. This of course, was impossible 
if the Bohemian was lodged without the precincts of the con¬ 
vent at which they stopped, and Durward could not help 
thinking that Hayraddin was desirous of bringing about this 
latter arrangement, for, instead of keeping himself still and 
quiet in the quarters allotted to him, his conversation, tricks, 
and songs were at the same time so entertaining to the novices 
and younger brethren and so unedifying in the opinion of the 
seniors of the fraternity, that, in more cases than one, it 
required all the authority, supported by threats, which Quen¬ 
tin could exert over him to restrain his irreverent and 
untimeous jocularity, and all the interest he could make with 
the superiors to prevent the heathen hound from being thrust 
out of doors. He succeeded, however, by the adroit manner 
in which he apologised for the acts of indecorum committed 
by their attendant, and the skill with which he hinted the hope 
of his being brought to a better sense of principles and 
behaviour by the neighborhood of holy relics, consecrated 
buildings, and, above all, of men dedicated to religion. 

But upon the tenth or twelfth day of their journey, after 
they had entered Flanders and were approaching the town of 
Namur, all the efforts of Quentin became inadequate to sup¬ 
press the consequences of the scandal given by his heathen 
guide. The scene was a Franciscan^ convent, and of a strict 
and reformed order, and the prior a man who afterwards 
died in the odour of sanctity. After rather more than the usual 
scruples, which were indeed in such a case to be expected, had 
been surmounted, the obnoxious Bohemian at length obtained 
quarters in an outhouse inhabited by a lay brother who acted 
as gardener. The ladies retired to their apartment, as usual, 

^Franciscan. The Franciscans were mendicant, or begging, friars; the order 
was founded by St. E'rancis of Assi-ssi. 


252 


Quentin Durward 

and the prior, who chanced to have some distant alliances and 
friends in Scotland, and who was fond of hearing foreigners 
tell of their native countries, invited Quentin, with whose 
mien and conduct he seemed much pleased, to a slight monastic 
refection in his own cell. Finding the father a man of intelli¬ 
gence, Quentin did not neglect the opportunity of making 
himself acquainted with the state of affairs in the country of 
Liege, of which, during the last two days of their journey, he 
had heard such reports as made him very apprehensive for the 
security of his charge during the remainder of their route, nay, 
even of the bishop’s power to protect them when they should 
be. safely conducted to his residence. The replies of the prior 
were not very consolatory. 

He said that “The people of Liege were wealthy burghers 
who, like Jeshurun^ of old, had waxed fat and kicked; that 
they were uplifted in heart because of their wealth and their 
privileges; that they had divers disputes with the Duke of 
Burgundy, their liege lord, upon the subject of imposts and 
immunities; and that they had repeatedly broken out into 
open mutiny, whereat the Duke was so much incensed, as 
being a man of a hot and fiery nature, that he had sworn by 
St. George,^ on the next provocation, he would make the city 
of Liege like to the desolation of Babylon, and the downfall 
of Tyre, a hissing and a reproach to the whole territory of 
Flanders.” 

“And he is a prince, by all report, likely to keep,such a 
vow,” said Quentin, “so the men of Liege will probably 
beware how they give him occasion.” 

“It were to be so hoped,” said the prior; “and such are 
the prayers of the godly in the land, who would not that the 
blood of the citizens were poured forth like water, and that 
they should perish, even as utter castaways, ere they make 
their peace with Heaven. Also the good bishop labours night 
and day to preserve peace, as well becometh a servant of the 


‘^Jeshurun. See Deuteronomy XXXII. 15. 
25 /. George. Patron saint of England. 


Quentin Durward 


253 


altar; for it is written in Holy Scripture, Beati pacific!. 
But-” here the good prior stopped with a deep sigh. 

Quentin modestly urged the great importance of which it 
w'as to the ladies wdiom he attended to have some assured 
information respecting the internal state of the country, and 
what an act of Christian charity it would be if the worthy and 
reverend father would enlighten them upon that subject. 

“It is one,” said the prior, “on which no man speaks with 
willingness; for those who speak evil of the powerful, etiam 
in cubiculo} may find that a winged thing shall carry the 
matter to his ears. Nevertheless, to render you, who seem an 
ingenuous youth, and your ladies,, who are devout votaresses 
accomplishing a holy pilgrimage, the little service that is in 
my power, I will be plain with you.” 

He then looked cautiously round, and lowered his voice, 
as if afraid of being overheard. 

“The people of Liege,” he said, “are privily instigated to 
their frequent mutinies by men of Belial,^ who pretend, but as 
I hope falsely, to have commission to that effect from our 
Most Christian King, whom, however, I hold to deserve that 
term better than were consistent with his thus disturbing the 
peace of a neighbouring state. Yet so it is, that his name is 
freely used by those who uphold and inflame the discontents 
at Liege. There is, moreover, in the land a nobleman of good 
descent and fame in warlike affairs, but otherwise, so to speak, 
lapis offensionis et petra scandali —a stumbling-block of offence 
to the countries of Burgundy and Flanders. His name is 
William de la Marck.” 

“Called William with the Beard,” said the young Scot, “or 
the Wild Boar of Ardennes?” 

“And rightly so called, my son,” said the prior; “because 
he is as the wild boar of the forest, which treadeth down with 
his hoofs and rendeth with his tusks. And he hath formed to 
himself a band of more than a thousand men, all, like himself, 

!Etiam in cubiculo. Even in the bed-chamber. 

^Men of Belial. See Deuteronomy XIII. 13. 



254 


Quentin Durward 

contemners of civil and ecclesiastical authority, and holds him¬ 
self independent of the Duke of Burgundy, and maintains 
himself and his followers by rapine and wrong, wrought with¬ 
out distinction upon churchmen and laymen. Imposuit manus 
in Christos Domini: he hath stretched forth his hand upon 
the Anointed of the Lord, regardless of what is written— 
‘Touch not mine Anointed, and do my prophets no wrong.’ 
Even to our poor house did he send for sums of gold and sums 
of silver as a ransom for our lives, and those of our brethren, 
to which we returned a Latm supplication, stating our 
inability to answer his demand, and exhorting him in the 
words of the preacher, AV moUaris 'amico tuo malum, cum 
habet in te jiduciam} Nevertheless this Gulielmus Bar- 
batus," this William de la Marck, as complexly ignorant of 
humane letters as of humanity itself, replied, in his ridiculous 
jargon, 'Si non payatis, brulaho monasterium vestrum!”^ 

“Of which rude Latin, however, you, my good father, 
said the youth, “were at no loss to conceive the meaning?” 

“Alas, my son,” said the prior, “fear and necessity are 
shrewd interpreters; and we were obliged to melt down the 
silver vessels of our altar to satisfy the rapacity of this cruel 
chief. May Heaven requite it to him sevenfold! Fereat 
improbus. Amen — amen, anathema estoT'^ 

“I marvel,” said Quentin, “that the Duke of Burgundy, 
who is so strong and powerful, doth not bait this boar to 
purpose, of whose ravages I have already heard so much.” 

“Alas! my son,” said the prior, “the Duke Charles is now 
at Peronne, assembling his captains of hundreds and his cap¬ 
tains of thousands, to make war against France; and thus 

1 Ne moliaris, etc. Devise not evil against thy neighbor, seeing he dwelleth 
securely by thee [since he has confidence in thee]. 

^Gulieimus Barbatus. William with the Beard. 

S5j non payatis, etc. If you do not pay, I will burn your monastery. 

A similar story is told of the Duke of Vendome, who answered in this sort of 
macaronic l.atin the ,plassical expostulations of a German convent against the 
imposition of a contribution.— Scott. 

*Pereat improbus, etc. Let the wicked perish, Amen! and let him be anathema 
taccursedj 1 


Quentin Durward 255 

while Heaven hath set discord' between the hearts of those 
great princes, the country is misused by such subordinate 
oppressors. But it is in evil time that the Duke neglects the 
cure of these internal gangrenes; for this William de la 
March hath of late entertained open communication with 
Rouslaer and Pavilion, the chiefs of the discontented at Liege, 
and it is to be feared he will soon stir them up to some 
desperate enterprise.” 

“But the Bishop of Liege,” said Quentin, ‘^he hath still 
power enough to subdue this disquieted and turbulent spirit, 
hath he not, good father ? Your answer to this question con¬ 
cerns me much.” 

“The bishop, my child,” replied the prior, “hath the 
sword of St. Peter as well as the keys. He hath power as a 
secular prince, and he hath the protection of the mighty house 
of Burgundy; he hath also spiritual authority as a prelate, 
and he supports both with a reasonable force of good soldiers 
and men-at-arms. This William de la Marck was bred in his 
household, and bound to him by many benefits. But he gave 
vent, even in the court of the bishop, to his fierce and blood¬ 
thirsty temper, and was expelled thence for a homicide, 
committed on one of the bishop’s chief domestics. From 
thenceforward, being banished from the good prelate’s pres¬ 
ence, he hath been his constant and unrelenting foe; and now, 

I grieve to say, he hath girded his loins and strengthened his 
horn against him.” 

“You consider, then, the situation of the worthy prelate as 
being dangerous ?” said Quentin, very anxiously. 

“Alas! my son,” said the good Franciscan, “what or who 
is there in this weary wilderness whom we may not hold as in 
danger? But Heaven forfend I should speak of the reverend 
prelate as one whose peril is imminent. He has much treasure, 
true counsellors, and brave soldiers; and, moreover, a mes¬ 
senger who passed hither to the eastward yesterday saith that 
the Duke of Burgundy hath despatched, upon the bishop’s 
request, an hundred men-at-arms to his assistance. This rein- 


256 Quentin Durward 

forcement, with the retinue belonging to each lance, are 
enough to deal with William de la March, on whose name be 

sorrow! Amen.” ^ j u u 

At this crisis their conversation was interrupted by the 

sacristan,^ who, in a voice almost inarticulate with anger, 
accused the Bohemian of having practised the most abomin¬ 
able arts of delusion among the younger brethren. He had 
added to their nightlv meal cups of a heady and intoxicating 
cordial of ten times the strength of the most powerful wine, 
under which several of the fraternity had succumbedand, 
indeed, although the sacristan had been strong to resist its 
influence, thev might vet see, from his inflamed countenance 
and thick speech, that even he, the accuser himself, was m 
some degree affected by this unhallowed potation. Moreover, 
the Bohemian had sung songs of worldly vanity and impure 
pleasures; he had derided the cord of St. Francis, made jest 
of his miracles, and termed his votaries fools and lazy knaves. 
Lastly, he had practised palmistry, and foretold to the young 
Father Cherubin that he was beloved by a beautiful lady who 
should make him father to a thriving boy. 

The father prior listened to these complaints for some 
time in silence; as struck with mute horror by their enormous 
atrocity. When the sacristan had concluded, he rose up, 
descended to the court of the convent, and ordered the lay 
brethren, on pain of the worst consequences of spiritual dis¬ 
obedience, to beat Hayraddin out of the sacred precincts with 
their broom-staves and cart-whips. 

This sentence was executed accordingly, in the presence of 
Quentin Durward, who, however vexed at the occurrence, 
easily saw that his interference would be of no avail. 

The discipline inflicted upon the delinquent, notwith¬ 
standing the exhortations of the superior, was more ludicrous 
than formidable. The Bohemian ran hither and thither 
through the court, amongst the clamour of voices and noise of 

iSacristan. The appointed custodian of the utensils, vestments, and valu¬ 
ables belonging to the monastery. 


Quentin Durward 257 

blows, some of which reached him not, because purposely 
misaimed; others, sincerely designed for his person, were 
eluded by his activity; and the few that fell upon his back 
and shoulders he took without either complaint or reply. The 
noise and riot was the greater,, that the inexperienced cudgel- 
players, among whom Hayraddin ran the gauntlet, hit each 
other more frequently than they did him; till at length, 
desirous of ending a scene which was more scandalous than 
edifjdng, the prior commanded the wicket to be flung open, 
and the Bohemian, darting through it with the speed of 
lightning, fled forth into the moonlight. 

During this scene, a suspicion, which Durward had for¬ 
merly entertained recurred with additional strength. Hayrad¬ 
din had,, that very morning, promised to him more modest and 
discreet behaviour than he was wont to exhibit when they 
rested in a convent on their journey; yet he had broken his 
engagement, and had been even more offensively obstreperous 
than usual. Something probably lurked under this; for what¬ 
ever were the Bohemian’s deficiencies, he lacked neither sense 
nor, when he pleased, self-command; and might it not be 
probable that he wished to hold some communication, either 
with his owm horde or some one else, from which he was 
debarred in the course of the day by the vigilance wu’th which 
he was w^atched by Quentin, and had recourse to this strata¬ 
gem in order to get himself turned out of the convent ? 

No sooner did this suspicion dart once more through Dur- 
ward’s mind than, alert as he always was in his motions,, he 
resolved to follow his cudgelled guide, and observe, secretly 
if possible, how he disposed of himself. Accordingly, when 
the Bohemian fled, as already mentioned, out at the gate of 
the convent, Quentin, hastily explaining to the prior the neces¬ 
sity of keeping sight of his guide, followed in pursuit of him. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


THE ESPIED SPY 

What, the rue ranger? and spied spy? Hands off— 

You are for no such rustics. 

Ben Joi^son’s Tale of Robin Hood. 

When Quentin sallied from the convent, he could mark 
the precipitate retreat of the Bohemian, vchose dark figure was 
seen in the far moonlight, flying with the speed of a flogged 
hound quite through the street of the little village, and across 
the level meadow that lay beyond. 

“My friend runs fast,” said Quentin to himself; but he 
must run faster yet to escape the fleetest foot that ever pressed 
the heather of Glen Houlakin.” 

Being fortunately without his cloak and armour, the 
Scottish mountaineer was at liberty to put forth a speed which 
was unrivalled in his own glens, and which, notwithstanding 
the rate at which the Bohemian ran, was likely soon to bring 
his pursuer up with him. This was not, however, Quentin’s 
object; for he considered it more essential to watch Hay- 
raddin’s motions than to interrupt them. He was the rather 
led to this by the steadiness with which the Bohemian directed 
his course; and which continuing, even after the impulse of 
the violent expulsion had subsided, seemed to indicate that his 
career had some more certain goal for its object than could 
have suggested itself to a person unexpectedly turned out of 
good quarters when midnight was approaching, to seek a new 
place of repose. He never even looked behind him; and con¬ 
sequently Durward was enabled to follow him unobserved. 
At length the Bohemian having traversed the meadow, and 
attained the side of a little stream, the banks of which were 
clothed with alders and willows, Quentin observed that he 


258 


259 


Quentin Durward 

stood still, and blew a low note on his horn, which was 
answered by a whistle at some little distance. 

“This is a rendezvous,” thought Quentin; “but how shall 
I come near enough to overhear the import of what passes? 
The sound of my steps, and the rustling of the boughs through 
which I must force my passage, will betray me, unless I am 
cautious. I will stalk them, by St. Andrew, as if they were 
Glen Isla deer; they shall learn that I have not conned wood¬ 
craft for nought. Yonder they meet, the two shadows—and 
two of them there are—odds against me if I am discovered, 
and if their purpose be unfriendly, as is much to be doubted.^ 
And then the Countess Isabelle loses her poor friend! Well, 
and he were not worthy to be called such, if he were not ready 
to meet a dozen in her behalf. Have I not crossed swords 
with Dunois, the best knight in France, and shall I fear a 
tribe of yonder vagabonds ? Pshaw! God and St. Andrew to 
friend, they wdll find me both stout and wary.” 

Thus resolving, and with a degree of caution taught him 
by his silvan habits, our friend descended into the channel of 
the little stream, which varied in depth, sometimes scarce 
covering his shoes, sometimes coming up to his knees, and so 
crept along, his form concealed by the boughs overhanging 
the bank, and his steps unheard amid the ripple of the water. 
(We have ourselves, in the days of yore, thus approached the 
nest of the wakeful raven.) In this manner, the Scot drew 
near unperceived, until he distinctly heard the voices of those 
who were the subject of his observation, though he could not 
distinguish the words. Being at this time under the drooping 
branches of a magnificent weeping willowy which almost swept 
the surface of the water, he caught hold of one of its boughs, by 
the assistance of which, exerting at once much agility, dexterity, 
and strength, he raised himself up into the body of the tree, 
and sat, secure from discovery, among the central branches. 

From this situation he could discover that the person with 
whom Hayraddin was now conversing was one of his own 


^To be doubted. To be feared. 


260 


Quentin Durward 

tribe, and, at the same time, he perceived, to his great dis¬ 
appointment, that no approximation could enable him to 
comprehend their language, which was totally unknown to 
him. They laughed much; and as Hayraddin made a sign of 
skipping about, and ended by rubbing his shoulder with his 
hand, Durward had no doubt that he was relating the story 
of the bastinading which he had si/stained previous to his 
escape from the convent. 

On a sudden, a whistle was again heard in the distance, 
which was once more answered by a low tone or two of Hay- 
raddin’s horn. Presently atterwards, a tall, stout, soldierly- 
looking man, a strong contrast in point of thews and sinews to 
the small and slender-limbed Bohemians, made his appearance. 
He had a broad baldric over his shoulder, which sustained a 
sword that hung almost across his person; his hose were much 
slashed, through which slashes was drawn silk or tiffany^ of 
various colours; they were tied by>at least five hundred points 
or strings, made of ribbon, to the tight buff-jacket “ which he 
wore, and the right sleeve of which displayed a silver boar’s 
head, the crest of his captain. A very small hat sat jauntily 
on one side of his head, from which descended a quantity of 
curled hair, which fell on each side of a broad face, and 
mingled with as broad a beard, about four inches long. He 
held a long lance in his hand; and his whole equipment was 
that of one of the German adventurers, who were known by 
the name of lanzknechts, in English, “spearmen,” who con¬ 
stituted a formidable part of the infantry of the period. These 
mercenaries were, of course, a fierce and rapacious soldiery, 
and having an idle tale current among themselves that a 
lanzknecht was refused admittance into Heaven on account of 
his vices, and into Hell on the score of his tumultuous, mutin¬ 
ous, and insubordinate disposition, they manfully acted as if 
tliey neither sought the one nor eschewed the other. 


^Tiffany. Thin silk gauze. 

-Buff-jacket. A jacket of leather; the word "buff” meaning a sort of leather. 


261 


Quentin Durward 

'‘Dormer and blitz!'"^ was his first salutation, in a sort of 
German-French, which we can only imperfectly imitate, “why 
have you kept me dancing in attendance dis dree nights?” 

“I could not see you sooner, Meinherr,” said Hayraddin, 
very submissively: “there is a young Scot, with as quick an 
eye as the wild-cat, who watches my least motions. He 
suspects me already, and, should he find his suspicion con¬ 
firmed, I were a dead man on the spot, and he would carry 
back the women into France again.” 

"Was henker!''- said the lanzknecht; “we are three—we 
will attack them to-morrow, and carry the women off without 
going farther. You said the two valets were cowards: you 
and your comrade may manage them, and the Teufel shall 
hold me., but I match your Scots wild-cat.” 

“You will find that foolhardy,” said Hayraddin; “for, 
besides that we ourselves count not much in fighting, this 
spark hath matched himself with the best knight in France, 
and come off with honour: I have seen those who saw him 
press Dunois hard enough.” 

"Hagel and Sturrnwetter!^ It is but your cowardice that 
speaks,” said the German soldier. 

“I am no more a coward than yourself,” said Hayraddin; 
“but my trade is not fighting. If you keep the appointment 
where it was laid, it is well; if not, I guide them safely to the 
bishop’s palace, and William de la Marck may easily possess 
himself of them there, provided he is half as strong as he pre¬ 
tended a week since.” 

"Potz tausend !said the soldier, “we are as strong and 
stronger; but we hear of a hundreds of the lances of Bur- 
gund— das ist, see you, five men to a lance do make five 
hundreds, and then hold me the devil, they will be fainer to 

^Donner and blitz. Thunder and lightning! a German oath. 

^Vas henker. What the deuce! 

^Ilagel and Sturmwetler. Hail and Storm! 

‘^T’atz tau<;evd.. The deuce! 


262 


Quentin Durward ^ 

seek for us than we to seek for them; for der bischojf hath a 
goot force on footing—ay, indeed !” 

“You must then hold to the ambuscade at the Cross of the 
Three Kings, or give up the adventure,” said the Bohemian. 

''Geb up— geb up the adventure of a rich bride for our 
noble hauptmann} Teufel! ~ I wilh charge through hell 
first. Mein soul, we will be all princes and hertzogs, whom 
they call dukes, and we will hah a snab at the weinkeller? 
and at the mouldy French crowns, and it may be at the pretty 
garces^ too, when He with de Beard is weary on them. 

“The ambuscade at the Cross of the Three Kings then 
still holds?” said the Bohemian. 

''Mein Gott, ay,—you will swear to bring them there; 
and when they are on their knees before the cross,, and down 
from off their horses, which all men do, except such black 
heathens as thou, we will make in on them, and they are ours. 

“Ay, but I promised this piece of necessary villainy only 
on one condition,” said Hayraddin. “I will not have a hair 
of the young man’s head touched. If you swear this to me, by 
your Three Dead Men of Cologne,® I will swear to you, by 
the Seven Night Walkers, that I will serve you truly as to the 
rest. And if you break your oath, the Night Walkers shall 
wake you seven nights from your sleep, between night and 
morning, and, on the eighth, they shall strangle and devour 
you. 

“But, donner and liagel, what need you be so curious 
about the life of this boy, who is neither your bloot ® nor kin ?” 
said the German. 

“No matter for that, honest Heinrich; some men have 
pleasure in cutting throats, some in keeping them whole. So 

1 Hauptmann, Captain. 

^Teufel. Devil. 

^Weinkeller. Wine-cellar. 

*Garces. Wenches. 

^Three dead men of Cologne. The three Wise Men. See the further allusion 
page 267. 

* Bloot. German Blut, blood. 


Quentin Durward 


263 


swear to me that you will spare him life and limb, or, by the 
bright star Aldebaran,^ this matter shall go no further. Swear, 
and by the Three Kings, as you call them, of Cologne; I know 
you care for no other oath.” 

“Du bist ein comischer Tuann/*^ said the lanzknecht, “I 
swear-” 

“Not yet,” said the Bohemian. “Faces about, brave lanz¬ 
knecht, and look to the east, else the kings may not hear you.” 

The soldier took the oath in the manner prescribed, and 
then declared that he would be in readiness, observing the 
place was quite convenient, being scarce five miles from their 
present leaguer. 

“But were it not making sure work to have a fahnlein ® of 
riders on the other road, by the left side of the inn, which 
might trap them if they go that way?” 

The Bohemian considered a moment, and then answered, 
“No; the appearance of their troops in that direction might 
alarm the garrison of Namur, and then they would have a 
doubtful fight, instead of assured success. Besides, they shall 
travel on the right bank of the Maes, for I can guide them 
which way I will; for, sharp as this same Scottish mountaineer 
is, he hath never asked any one’s advice save mine upon the 
direction of their route. Undoubtedly, I was assigned to him 
by an assured friend, whose word no man mistrusts till they 
come to know him a little.” 

“Hark ye, friend Hayraddin,” said the soldier, “I would 
ask you somewhat. You and your bruder^ were, as you say 
3 'ourself, gross sternendeuter, that is, star-lookers and geister- 
seers? Now, what henker was it made you not foresee him, 
your bruder Zamet, to be hanged?” 

“I will tell you Heinrich,” said Hayraddin; “if I could 
have known my brother was such a fool as to tell the counsel 

^Aldebaran. One of the four "royal stars” of the ancient Egyptians. 
bist. etc. Thou art a queer fellow. 

^Fahnlein. German Fdhnlein, a little flag, a pennon; a troop. 

*Bruder. Brother. 

*Ceister-seers. Spirit seers. 



264 


Quentin Durward 

of King Louis to Duke Charles of Burgundy, I could have 
foretold his death as sure as I can foretell fair weather in 
July. Louis hath both ears and hands at the court of Bur¬ 
gundy, and Charles’s counsellors love the chink of French 
gold as well as thou dost the clatter of a wine-pot. But fare 
thee well, and keep appointment; I must await my early Scot 
a bow-shot without the gate of the den of the lazy swine 
yonder, else will he think me about some excursion which 
bodes no good to the success of his journey.” 

“Take a draught of comfort first,” said the lanzknecht, 
tendering him a flask; “but I forget, thou art beast enough 
to drink nothing but water, like a vile vassal of Mahound and 
Termagund.” ^ 

“Thou art thyself a vassal of the wine-measure and the 
flagon,” said the Bohemian. “I marvel not that thou art only 
trusted with the bloodthirsty and violent part of executing 
what better heads have devised. He must drink no wine who 
would know the thoughts of others or hide his own. But why 
preach to thee, who hast a thirst as eternal as a sandbank in 
Arabia? Fare thee well. Take my comrade Tuisco with 
thee: his appearance about the monastery may breed suspicion.” 

The two worthies parted, after each had again pledged 
himself to keep the rendezvous at the Cross of the Three 
Kings. 

Quentin Durward watched until they were out of sight, 
and then descended from his place of concealment, his heart 
throbbing at the narrow escape which he and his fair charge 
had made—if indeed, it could yet be achieved—from a deep- 
laid plan of villainy. Afraid, on his return to the monastery, 
of stumbling upon Hayraddin, he made a long detour, at the 
expense of traversing some very rough ground, and was thus 
enabled to return to his asylum on a different point from that 
by which he left it. 

On the route, he communed earnestly with himself con¬ 
cerning the safest plan to be pursued. He had formed the 

^Termaeund. An oriental devil introduced into the mediaeval mystery plays; 
usually spelled Termagaunt. 


Quentin Durward 


265 


resolution, when he first heard Hayraddin avow his treachery, 
to put him to death so soon as the conference broke up, and 
his companions were at a sufficient distance; but when he 
heard the Bohemian express so much interest in saving his 
own life, he felt it would be ungrateful to execute upon him, 
in its rigour, the punishment his treachery had deserved. He 
therefore resolved to spare his life, and even, if possible, still 
to use his services as a guide, under such precautions as should 
ensure the security of the precious charge, to the preservation 
of which his own life was internally devoted. 

But whither were they to turn ? The Countesses of Croye 
could neither obtain shelter in Burgundy, from which they 
had fled, nor in France, from which they had been in a 
manner expelled. The violence of Duke Charles in the one 
country was scarcely more to be feared than the cold and 
tyrannical policy of King Louis in the other. After deep 
thought, Durward could form no better or safer plan for 
their security than that, evading the ambuscade, they should 
take the road to Liege by the left hand of. the Maes, and 
throw themselves, as the ladies originally designed, upon the 
protection of the excellent bishop. That prelate s will to pro¬ 
tect them could not be doubted, and, if reinforced by this 
Burgundian party of men-at-arms, he might be considered as 
having the power. At any rate, if the dangers to which he 
was exposed from the hostility of William de la Marck, and 
from the troubles in the city of Liege, appeared imminent, he 
would still be able to protect the unfortunate ladies until they 
could be despatched to Germany with a suitable escort. 

To sum up this reasoning—for when is a mental argument 
conducted without some reference to selfish considerations?— 
Quentin imagined that the death or captivity to which King 
Louis had, in cold blood, consigned him set him at liberty 
from his engagements to the crown of France; which, there¬ 
fore, it was his determined purpose to renounce. 'The Bishop 
of Liege was likely, he concluded, to need soldiers, and he 
thought that, by the interposition of his fair friends, who now. 


266 


Quentin Durvvard 

especially the elder countess, treated him with much famili¬ 
arity, he might get some command, and perhaps might have 
the charge of conducting the Ladies of Croye to some place 
more safe than the neighbourhood of Liege. And, to conclude, 
the ladies had talked, although almost in a sort of je^t, of rais¬ 
ing the countess’s own vassals, and, as others did in those 
stormy times, fortifying her strong castle against all assailants 
whatever; they had jestingly asked Quentin, whether he 
would accept the perilous office of their seneschal and, on his 
embracing the office with ready glee and devotion, they had, 
in the same spirit, permitted him to kiss both their hands on 
that confidential and honourable appointment. Nay, he 
thought that the hand of the Countess Isabelle, one of the best 
formed and most beautiful to which true vassal ever did such 
homage., trembled when his lips rested on it a moment longer 
than ceremony required, and that some confusion appeared on 
her cheek and in her eye as she withdrew it. Something might 
come of all this; and what brave man, at Quentin Durward’s 
age, but would gladly have taken the thoughts which it 
awakened into the considerations which were to determine his 
conduct? 

This point settled, he had next to consider in what degree 
he was to use the further guidance of the faithless Bohemian. 
He had renounced his first thought of killing him in the 
wood, and if he took another guide and dismissed him alive, 
it would be sending the traitor to the camp of William de la 
Marck with intelligence of their motions. He thought of 
taking the prior into his counsels, and requesting him to 
detain the Bohemian by force until they should have time to 
reach the bishop’s castle; but on reflection, he dared not 
hazard such a proposition to one who was timid both as an 
old man and friar, who held the safety of his convent the 
most important object of his duty, and who trembled at the 
mention of the Wild Boar of Ardennes. 

At length Durward settled a plan of operation, on which 


^Seneschal. Steward or major-domo. 


Quentin Durward 


267 


he could the better reckon, as the execution rested entirely 
upon himself; and, in the cause in which he was engaged, he 
felt himself capable of everything. With a firm and bold 
heart, though conscious of the dangers of his situation, Quen¬ 
tin might be compared to one w^alking under a load, of the 
weight of which he is conscious, but which yet is not beyond 
his strength and power of endurance. Just as his plan was 
determined,, he reached the convent. 

Upon knocking gently at the gate, a brother, considerately 
stationed for that purpose by the prior, opened it, and 
acquainted him that the brethren were to be engaged in the 
choir till day-break, praying Heaven to forgive to the com¬ 
munity the various scandals which had that evening taken 
place among them. 

The worthy friar offered Quentin permission to attend 
their devotions; but his clothes were in such a wet condition 
that the young Scot was obliged to decline the opportunity, 
and request permission instead to sit by the kitchen fire, in 
order to assure his attire being dried before morning, as he 
was particularly desirous that the Bohemian, when they 
should next meet, should observe no traces of his having been 
abroad during the night. The friar not only granted his 
request, but afforded him his own company, which fell in very 
happily with the desire which Durward had to obtain informa¬ 
tion concerning the two routes which he had heard mentioned 
by the Bohemian in his conversation with the lanzknecht. 
The friar, entrusted upon many occasions with the business 
of the convent abroad, was the person in the fraternity best 
qualified to afford him the information he requested; but 
observed that, as true pilgrims, it became the duty of the 
ladies whom Quentin escorted to take the road on the right 
side of the Maes, by the Cross of the Kings, where the blessed 
relics of Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar, as the Catholic 
Church has named the eastern Magi who came to Bethlehem 
with their offerings, had rested as they were transported to 
Cologne, and on which spot they had wrought many mi’-icles. 


268 


Quentin Durward 

Quentin replied that the ladies were determined to observe 
all the holy stations with the utmost punctuality, and would 
certainly visit that of the Cross either in going to or returning 
from Cologne, but they had heard reports that the road by the 
right side of the river was at present rendered unsafe by the 
soldiers of the ferocious William de la Marck. 

“Now may Heaven forbid,” said leather Francis, “that 
the Wild Boar of Ardennes should again make his lair so near 
us! Nevertheless, the broad Maes will be a good barrier 
betwixt us, even should it so chance.” 

“But it will be no barrier between my ladies and the 
marauder, should we cross the river and travel on the right 
bank,” answered the Scot. 

“Heaven will protect its.own, young man,” said the friar; 
“for it were hard to think that the kings of yonder blessed city 
of Cologne, who will not endure that a Jew or infidel should 
even enter within the walls of their town, could be oblivious 
enough to permit their worshippers, coming to their shrine as 
true pilgrims, to be plundered and misused by such a miscreant 
dog as this Boar of Ardennes, who is worse than a whole 
desert of Saracen heathens and all the ten tribes of Israel to 
boot.” 

Whatever reliance Quentin, as a sincere Catholic, was 
bound to rest upon the special protection of Melchior, Caspar, 
and Balthasar, he could not but recollect that, the pilgrim 
habits of the ladies being assumed out of mere earthly policy, he 
and his charge could scarcely expect their countenance on the 
present occasion; and therefore resolved, as far as possible, to 
avoid placing the ladies in any predicament where miraculous 
Interposition might be necessary; whilst, in the simplicity of 
his good faith, he himself vowed a pilgrimage to the Three 
Kings of Cologne in his own proper person,, provided the 
simulate design of those over whose safety he was now watch¬ 
ing should be permitted by those reasonable and royal, as well 
as sainted, personages to attain the desired effect. 

That he might enter into this obligation with all solemnity. 


Quentin Durward 


269 


he requested the friar to show him into one of the various 
chapels which opened from the main body of the church of the 
convent, where, upon his knees, and with sincere devotion, he 
ratified the vow which he had made internally. The distant 
sound of the choir, the solemnity of the deep and dead hour 
which he had chosen for this act of devotion, the effect of the 
glimmering lamp with which the little Gothic building was 
illuminated, all contributed to throw Quentin’s mind into the 
state when it most readily acknowledges its human frailty, 
and seeks that supernatural aid and protection which, in every 
worship, must be connected with repentance for past sins and 
resolutions of future amendment. That the object of his 
devotion was misplaced was not the fault of Quentin; and, 
its purpose being sincere, we can scarce suppose it unacceptable 
to the only true Deity, who regards the motives and not the 
forms of prayer, and in whose eyes the sincere devotion of a 
heathen is more estimable than the specious h5^pocrisy of a 
Pharisee. 

Having commended himself and his helpless companions 
to the saints and to the keeping of Providence, Quentin at 
length retired to rest, leaving the friar much edified by the 
depth and sincerity of his devotion. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


PALMISTRY 


When many a merry tale and many -i song 

Cheer’d the rough road, we wish’d the rough road long. 

The rough road, then, returning in a round. 

Mock’d our enchanted steps, for all was fairy ground. 

- Samuel Johnson. 

By peep of day Quentin Durward had forsaken his little 
cell, had roused the sleepy grooms, and, with more than his 
wonted care, seen that everything was prepared for the day’s 
journey. Girths and bridles, the horse furniture, and the 
shoes of the horses themselves,, were carefully inspected with 
his own eyes, that there might be as little chance as possible 
of the occurrence of any of those casualties which, petty as 
they seem, often interrupt or disconcert travelling. The horses 
were also, under his own inspection, carefully fed, so as to 
render them fit for a long day’s journey, or, if that should be 
necessary, for a hasty flight. 

Quentin then betook himself to his own chamber, armed 
himself with unusual care, and belted on his sword with the 
feeling at once of approaching danger and of stern determina¬ 
tion to dare it to the uttermost. 

These generous feelings gave him a loftiness of step and a 
dignity of manner which the Ladies of Croye had not yet 
observed in him, though they had been highly pleased and 
interested by the grace, yet naivete, of his general behaviour 
and conversation, and the mixture of shrewd intelligence 
which naturally belonged to him, with the simplicity arising 
from his secluded education and distant country. He let them 
understand that it would be necessary that they should prepare 
for their journey this morning rather earlier than usual; and, 
accordingly, they left the convent immediately after a morn- 


270 


Quentin Durward 27 % 

ing repast, for which, as well as the other hospitalities of the 
house, the ladies made acknowledgment by a donation to the 
altar befitting rather their rank than their appearance. But 
this excited no suspicion, as they were supposed to be English¬ 
women ; and the attribute of superior wealth attached at that 
time to the insular character as strongly as in our own day. 

The prior blessed them as they mounted to depart, and 
congratulated Quentin on the absence of his heathen guide, 
“for,” said the venerable man, “better stumble in the path 
than be upheld by the arm of a thief or robber.” 

Quentin was not quite of his opinion; for, dangerous as 
he knew the Bohemian to be, he thought he could use his 
services, and at the same time baffle his treasonable purpose, 
now that he saw clearly to what it tended. But his anxiety 
upon this subject w^as soon at an end, for the little cavalcade 
was not an hundred yards from the monastery and the village 
before Maugrabin joined it, riding as usual on his little active 
and wild-looking jennet. Their road led them along the side 
of the same brook w'here Quentin had overheard the mysteri¬ 
ous conference of the preceding evening, and Hayraddin had 
not long rejoined them ere they passed under the very willow- 
tree which had afforded Durward the means of concealment 
when he became an unsuspected hearer of what then passed 
betwixt that false guide and the lanzknecht. 

The recollections which the spot brought back stirred 
Quentin to enter abruptly into conversation with his guide, 
whom hitherto he had scarce spoken to. 

“Where hast thou found night-quarter, thou profane 
knave?” said the Scot. 

“Your wisdom may guess by looking on my gaberdine,” 
answered the Bohemian, pointing to his dress, which was 
covered with the seeds of hay. 

“A good hay-stack,” said Quentin, “is a convenient bed 
for an astrologer, and a much better than a heathen scoffer at 
our blessed religion and its ministers ever deserves.” 

“It suited my Klepper better than me, though,” said Hay- 


272 


Quentin Durward 

raddin, patting his horse on the neck, “for he had food and 
shelter at the same time. 1 he old bald fools turned him loose, 
as if a wise man’s horse could have infected with wit or 
sagacity a whole convent of asses. Lucky that Klepper knows 
my whistle, and follows me as truly as a hound, or we had 
never met again, and you in your turn might have whistled 
for a guide.” 

“I have told thee more than once,” said Durward sternly, 
“to restrain thy ribaldry when thou chancest to be in worthy 
men’s company, a thing which, I believe, hath rarely happened 
to thee in thy life before now; and I promise thee that, did I 
hold thee as faithless a guide as I esteem thee a blasphemous 
and worthless caitiff,^ my Scottish dirk and thy heathenish 
heart had ere now been acquainted, although the doing such a 
deed were as ignoble as the sticking of swine.” 

“A wild boar is near akin to a sow,” said the Bohemian,, 
without flinching from the sharp look with which Quentin 
regarded him or altering, in the slightest degree, the caustic 
indifference which he affected in his language; “and many 
men,” he subjoined, “find both pride, pleasure, and profit in 
sticking them.” 

Astonished at the man’s ready confidence, and uncertain 
whether he did not know more of his own history and feelings 
than was pleasant for him to converse upon, Quentin broke 
off a conversation in which he had gained no advantage over 
Maugrabin, and fell back to his accustomed post beside the 
ladies. 

We have already observed that a considerable degree of 
familiarity had begun to establish itself between them. The 
elder countess treated him, being once well assured of the 
nobility of his birth, like a favoured equal; and though her 
niece showed her regard to her protector less freely, yet, under 
every disadvantage of bashfulness and timidity, Quentin 
thought he could plainly perceive that his company and con¬ 
versation, were not by any means indifferent to her. 

^Caitiff. Originally from I>atin caphvum, a captive, later, a coward. 


Quentin Durward 


273 


Nothing gives such life and soul to youthful gaiety as the 
consciousness that it is successfully received; and Quentin 
had accordingly, during the former period of their journey, 
amused his fair charge with the liveliness of his conversation, 
and the songs and tales of his country, the former of which he 
sung in his native language, while his efforts to render the 
latter into his foreign and imperfect French gave rise to a 
hundred little mistakes and errors of speech, as diverting as 
the narratives themselves. But on this anxious morning he 
rode beside the Ladies of Croye without any of his usual 
attempts to amuse them, and they could not help observing his 
silence as something remarkable. 

“Our young companion has seen a wolf,” said the Lady 
Hameline, alluding to an ancient superstition,^ “and he has 
lost his tongue in consequence.” 

“To say I had tracked a fox were nearer the mark,” 
thought Quentin, but gave the reply no utterance. 

“Are you well. Seignior Quentin?” said the Countess 
Isabelle, in a tone of interest at which she herself blushed, 
while she felt that it was something more than the distance 
between them warranted. 

“He hath sat up carousing with the jolly friars,” said the 
Lady Hameline. “The Scots are like the Germans, who spend 
all their mirth over the Rheinivein, and bring only their stag¬ 
gering steps to the dance in the evening, and their aching 
heads to the ladies’ bower in the morning.” 

“Nay, gentle ladies,” said Quentin, “I deserve not your 
reproach. The good friars were at their devotions almost all 
night; and for myself, my drink was barely a cup of their 
thinnest and most ordinary wine.” 

“It is the badness of his fare that has put him out of 
humour,” said the Countess Isabelle. “Cheer up. Seignior 
Quentin; and should we ever visit my ancient Castle of 
Bracquemont together, if I myself should stand your cup¬ 
bearer and hand it to you, you shall have a generous cup of 

1.4 w ancient superstition. See Note 17 at end of the nove». 


:,4 Quentin Durward 

w ine that the like never grew upon the vines of Hochheim or 
Johannisberg.” ^ 

“A glass of water, noble lady, from your hand-” 

Thus far did Quentin begin, but his voice trembled; and 
Isabelle continued, as if she had been insensible of the tender¬ 
ness of the accentuation upon the perspnal pronoun. 

“The wine was stocked in the deep vaults of Bracquemont 
by my great-grandfather, the Rhinegrave Godfrey,” said the 
Countess Isabelle. 

“Who won the hand of her great-grandmother,” inter- 
iected the Lady Hameline, interrupting her niece, “by proving 
himself the best son of chivalry, at the great tournament of 
Strasbourg. Ten knights were slain in the lists. But those 
days are over, and no one now thinks of encountering peril 
for the sake of lionour, or to relieve distressed beauty.” 

To this speech, which was made in the tone in which a 
modern beauty, whose charms are rather on the wane, may be 
heard to condemn the rudeness of the present age, Quentin 
took upon him to repl}^ “ I hat tliere was no lack of that 
chivalry which the Lady Hameline seemed to consider as 
extinct, and that, were it eclipsed everywhere else, it would 
still glow in the bosoms of the Scottish gentlemen.” 

“Hear him!” said the Lady Hameline; “he would have 
us believe that in his cold and bleak country still lives the 
noble fire which has decayed in France and Germany! The 
poor youth is like a Swiss mountaineer, mad with partiality to 
his native land; he will next tell us of the vines and olives of 
Scotland.” 

“No madam,” said Durward; “of the wine and the oil of 
our mountains I can say little, more than that our swords can 
compel these rich productions as tribute from our wealthier 
neighbours. But for the unblemished faith and unfaded 
honour of Scotland, I must now put to the proof how far you 
can repose trust in them, however mean the individual who 
can offer nothing more as a pledge of your safety.” 

^Hochheim or Johannisberg. Famous vineyards on the Rhine. 



275 


Quentin Durward 

You speak mysteriously—you know of some pressing and 
present danger,” said the Lady Hameline. 

“I have read it in his eye for this hour past!” exclaimed 
the Lady Isabelle, clasping her hands. “Sacred Virgin, what 
will become of us?” 

Nothing, I hope, but what you ./ould desire,,” answered 
Durward. “And now I am compelled to ask—gentle ladies, 
can you trust me?” 

“Trust you!” answered the Countess Hameline, “cer¬ 
tainly. But why the Question ? Or how far do you ask our 
confidence ?” 

“I, on my part,” said the Countess Isabelle, “trust you 
implicitly and without condition. If you can deceive us, 
Quentin, I will no more look for truth, save in Heaven.” 

“Gentle lady,” replied Durward, highly gratified, “you do 
me but justice. My object is to alter our route, by proceeding 
directly by the left bank of the Maes to Liege, instead of 
crossing at Namur. This differs from the order assigned by 
King Louis and the instructions given to the guide. But I 
heard news in the monastery of marauders on the right bank 
of the Maes, and of the march of Burgundian soldiers to sup¬ 
press them. Both circumstances alarm me for your safety. 
Have I your permission so far to deviate from the route ot 
your journey?” 

“My ample and full permission,” answered the younger 
lady. 

“Cousin,” said the Lady Hameline, “I believe with you 
that the youth means us well; but bethink you—we transgress 
the instructions of King Louis, so positively iterated.” 

“And why should we regard his instructions?” said the 
Lady Isabelle. “I am, I thank Heaven for it, no subject of 
his; and as a suppliant, he has abused the confidence he 
induced me to repose in him. I would not dishonour this 
3^oung gentleman by weighing his word for an instant against 
the Injunctions of yonder crafty and selfish despot.” 

“Now, may God bless you for that very word, lady,” said 


276 


Quentin Durward 

Quentin, joyously; “and if I deserve not the trust it expresses, 
tearing with wild horses in this life, and eternal tortures in 
the next, were e’en too good for my deserts.” 

So saying, he spurred his horse and rejoined the Bohemian. 
This worthy seemed of a remarkably passive if not a forgiv¬ 
ing, temper. Injury or threat never dwelt, or at least seemed 
not to dwell, on his recollection; and he entered into the 
conversation which Durward presently commenced just as if 
there had been no unkindly word betwixt them in the course 
of the morning. 

“The dog,” thought the Scot, “snarls not now, because.he 
intends to clear scores with me at once and for ever, when he 
can snatch me by the very throat; but we will try for once 
whether we cannot foil a traitor at his own weapons. Honest 
Hayraddin,” he said, “thou hast travelled with us for ten 
days, yet hast never shown us a specimen of your skill in 
fortune-telling; which you are, nevertheless, so fond of prac¬ 
tising, that you must needs display your gifts in every convent 
at which we stop, at the risk of being repaid by a night’s lodg¬ 
ing under a hay-stack.” 

“You have never asked me for a specimen of my skill,” 
said the gipsy. “Y^ou are like the rest of the world, contented 
to ridicule those mysteries which they do not understand.” 

“Give me then a present proof of your skill,” said Quen¬ 
tin ; and, ungloving his hand, he held it out to the Zingaro. 

Hayraddin carefully regarded all the lines which crossed 
each other on the Scotchman’s palm, and noted, with equally 
scrupulous attention, the little risings or swellings at the roots 
of the fingers, which were then believed as intimately con¬ 
nected with the disposition, habits, and fortunes of the 
individual as the organs of the brain are pretended to be in 
our own time. 

“Here is a hand,” said Hayraddin, “which speaks of toils 
endured and dangers encountered. I read in it an early 
acquaintance with the hilt of the sv/ord; and yet some 
acquaintance also with the clasps of the mass-book.” 


277 


Quentin Durward 

“This of my past life you may have learned elsewhere,,” 
said Quentin; “tell me something of the future.” 

“This line from the hill of Venus,” ^ said the Bohemian, 
“not broken off abruptly, but attending and accompanying the 
line of life, argues a certain and large fortune by marriage, 
whereby the party shall be raised among the wealthy and the 
noble by the influence of successful love.” 

“Such promises you make to all who ask your advice,” said 
Quentin; “they are part of your art.” 

“What I tell you is as certain,” said Hayraddin, “as that 
you shall in a brief space be menaced with mighty danger; 
which I infer from this bright blood-red line cutting the table¬ 
line transversely, and intimating stroke of sword or other 
violence, from which you shall only be saved by the attach¬ 
ment of a faithful friend.” 

“Thyself, ha?” said Quentin, somewhat indignant that 
'the chiromantist should thus practise on his credulity, and 
endeavour to found a reputation by predicting the conse¬ 
quences of his own treachery. 

“My art,” replied the Zingaro, “tells me nought that con¬ 
cerns myself.” 

“In this, then, the seers of my land,” said Quentin, “.excel 
your boasted knowledge; for their skill teaches them the 
dangers by which they are themselves beset. I left not my 
hills without having felt a portion of the double vision with 
which their inhabitants are gifted; and I will give thee a 
proof of it, in exchange for thy specimen of palmistry. Hay¬ 
raddin, the danger which threatens me lies on the right bank 
of the river; I will avoid it by travelling to Liege on the left 
bank.” 

The guide listened with an apathy which, knowing the 
circumstances in which Maugrabin stood, Quentin could not 
by any means comprehend. “If you accomplish your purpose,” 
was the Bohemian’s reply, “the dangerous crisis will be trans¬ 
ferred from your lot to mine.” 

I Hill of Venus. In palmistry the fleshy base of the thumb. 


278 


Quentin Durward 

“I thought,” said Quentin, “that you said but now that 
you could not presage your own fortune?” 

“Not in the manner in which I have but now told you 
yours,” answered Hayraddin ; “but it requires little knowledge 
of Louis of Valois to presage that he will hang your guide 
because your pleasure was to deviate from the road which he 
recommended.” 

“The attaining with safety the purpose of the journey, 
and ensuring its happy termination,” said Quentin, “must 
atone for a deviation from the exact line of the prescribed 
route.” 

“Ay,” replied the Bohemian, “if you are sure that the 
King had in his own eye the same termination of the pilgrim¬ 
age which he insinuated to you.” 

“And of what other termination is it possible that he could 
have been meditating? or why should you suppose he had any 
purpose in his thought other than was avowed in his direc¬ 
tion?” inquired Quentin. 

“Simply,” replied the Zingaro, “that those who know 
-aught of the Most Christian King are aware that the purpose 
about which he is most anxious is always that which he is 
least willing to declare. Let our gracious Louis send twelve 
embassies, and I will forfeit my neck to the gallows a year 
before it is due, if in eleven of them there is not something 
at the bottom of the ink-horn more than the pen had written 
in the letters of credence.” 

“I regard not your foul suspicions,” answered Quentin; 
“my duty is plain and peremptory—to convey these ladies in 
safety to Liege; and I take it on me to think that I best dis¬ 
charge that duty in changing our prescribed route,, and keep¬ 
ing the left side of the riv^r Maes. It is likewise the direct 
road to Liege. By crossing the river, we should lose time and 
incur fatigue to no purpose. Wherefore should we do so?’' 

“Only because pilgrims, as they call themselves, destined 
for Cologne,” said Hayraddin, “do not usually descend the 


Quentin Durward 


279 


Maes so low as Liege; and that the route of the ladies will be 
accounted contradictory of their professed destination.” 

“If we are challenged on that account,” said Quentin, 
“we will say that alarms of the wicked Duke of Gueldres, or 
of William de la Marck, or of the ecorcheurs^ and lanzknechts, 
on the right side of the river, justify our holding by the left, 
instead of our intended route.” 

“As you will, my good seignior,” replied the Bohemian. 
“I am for my part, equally ready to guide you down the left 
as down the right side of the Maes. Your excuse to your 
master you must make out for yourself.” 

Quentin,, although rather surprised, was at the same time 
pleased with the ready, or at least the unrepugnant, acquies¬ 
cence of Hayraddin in their change of route, for he needed his 
assistance as a guide, and yet had feared that the disconcerting 
of his intended act of treachery would have driven him to 
extremity. Besides, to expel the Bohemian from their society 
would have been the ready mode to bring down William de la 
Marck, with whom he was in correspondence, upon their 
intended route; whereas, if Hayraddin remained with them, 
Quentin thought he could manage to prevent the Moor from 
having any communication with strangers, unless he was him¬ 
self aware of it. 

Abandoning, therefore, all thoughts of their original route, 
the little party followed that by the left bank of the broad 
Maes so speedily and successfully that the next day early 
brought them to the purposed end of their journey. They 
found that the Bishop of Liege, for the sake of his health, as 
he himself alleged, but rather, perhaps, to avoid being sur¬ 
prised by the numerous and mutinous population of the city, 
had established his residence in his beautiful Castle of Schon- 
waldt, about a mile without Liege. 

Just as they approached the castle, they saw the prelate 
returning in long procession from the neighbouring city, in 

^Ecorcheurs. Literally, flayers; the term was applied to these lawless ruffians 
because? of their inhuman cruelty. 


280 


Quentin Durward 

which he had been officiating at the performance of high uiass. 
He was at the head of a splendid train of religious, civil, and 
military men, mingled together, or, as the old ballad-maker 
expresses it— 


With many a cross-bearer before, 

And many a spear behind. 

/ 

The procession made a noble appearance, as, winding along 
the verdant banks of the broad Maes, it wheeled into, and 
was as it were, devoured by, the huge Gothic portal of the 
episcopal residence. 

But when the party came more near, they found that 
circumstances around the castle argued a doubt and sense of 
insecurity, which contradicted that display of pomp and power 
which they had just witnessed. Strong guards of the bishop’s 
soldiers were heedfully maintained all around the mansion 
and its immediate vicinity; and the prevailing appearances, 
in an ecclesiastical residence, seemed to argue a sense of 
danger in the reverend prelate, who found it necessary thus to 
surround himself with all the defensive precautions of war. 
The Ladies of Croye, when announced by Quentin, were 
reverently ushered into the great hall, where they met with the 
most cordial reception from the bishop, who met them there at 
the head of his little court. He would not permit them to 
kiss his hand, but welcomed them with a salute, which had 
something in it of gallantry on the part of a prince to fine 
women, and something also of the holy affection of a pastor 
to the sisters of his flock. 

Louis of Bourbon, the reigning Bishop of Liege, was in 
truth a generous and kind-hearted prince, whose life had not 
indeed been always confined, with precise strictness, within 
the bounds of his clerical profession ^ but who, notwithstand¬ 
ing, had uniformly maintained the frank and honourable 
character of the house of Bourbon, from which he was 
descended. 


281 


Quentin Durward 

In later times, as age advanced, the prelate had adopted 
habits more beseeming a member of the hierarchy than his 
early reign had exhibited, and was loved among the neigh¬ 
bouring princes as a noble ecclesiastic, generous and mag¬ 
nificent in his ordinary mode of life, though preserving no 
very ascetic severity of character, and governing with an easy 
indifference which,, amid his wealthy and mutinous subjects, 
rather encouraged than subdued rebellious purposes. 

The bishop was so fast an ally of the Duke of Burgundy, 
that the latter claimed almost a joint sovereignty in his 
bishopric, and repaid the good-natured ease with which the 
prelate admitted claims which he might easily have disputed, 
by taking his part on all occasions, with the determined and 
furious zeal which was a part of his character. He used to 
say, “He considered Liege as his own, the bishop as his 
brother (indeed they might be accounted such, in consequence 
of the Duke having married for his first wife the bishop’s 
sister), and that he who annoyed Louis of Bourbon had to do 
with Charles of Burgundy”—a threat which, considering the 
character and power of the prince who used it, would have 
been powerful with any but the rich and discontented city of 
Liege, where much wealth had, according to the ancient 
proverb, made wit waver. 

The prelate, as we have said, assured the Ladies of Croye 
of such intercession as his interest at the court of Burgundy, 
used to the uttermost, might gain for them, and which, he 
hoped, might be the more effectual, as Campo-basso, from some 
late discoveries, stood rather lower than formerly in the Duke’s 
personal favour. He promised them also such protection as it 
was in his power to afford; but the sigh with which he gave 
the warrant seemed to allow that his power was more pre¬ 
carious than in words he was willing to admit. 

“At every event, my dearest daughters,” said the bishop, 
with an air in which, as in his previous salute, a mixture of 
spiritual unction qualified the hereditary gallantry of the 


282 Quentin Durward 

house of Bourbon, “Heaven forbid I should abandon the lamb 
to the wicked wolf, or noble ladies to the oppression of 
faitours.^ I am a man of peace, though my abode now rings 
with arms; but be assured I will care for your safety as for 
my own; and should matters become yet more distracted here, 
which, with Our Lady’s grace, we trust wdll be rather pacified 
than inflamed, we will provide for your safe-conduct to 
Germany; for not even the will of our brother and protector, 
Charles of Burgundy, shall prevail with us to dispose of you 
in any respect contrary to your own inclinations. We cannot 
comply with your request of sending you to a convent; for, 
alas! such is the influence of the sons of Belial among the 
inhabitants of Liege, that we know no retreat to which our 
authority extends, beyond the bounds of our own castle and 
the protection of our soldiery. But here j^ou are most wel¬ 
come, and your train shall have all honourable entertainment; 
especially this youth,, whom you recommend so particularly to 
our countenance, and on whom in especial we bestow our 
blessing.” 

Quentin kneeled, as in duty bound, to receive the episcopal 
benediction. 

“For yourselves,” proceeded the good prelate, “you shall 
reside here with my sister Isabelle, a canoness of Triers, and 
with w^hom you may dwell in all honour, even under the roof 
of so gay a bachelor as the Bishop of Liege.” 

He gallantly conducted the ladies to his sister’s apartment, 
as he concluded the harangue of welcome; and his master of 
the household, an officer who, having taken deacon’s orders, 
held something between a secular and ecclesiastical character, 
entertained Quentin with the hospitality which his master 
enjoined, while the other personages of the retinue of the 
Ladies of Croye were committed to the inferior departments. 

^Faitours. Traitors. 


Quentin Durward 283 

In this arrangement Quentin could not help remarking, 
that the presence of the Bohemian, so much objected to in 
country convents, seemed, in the household of this wealthy, 
and perhaps we might say worldly, prelate, to attract neither 
objection nor remark. 


CHAPTER XIX, 


THE CITY 


Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
To any sudden act of mutiny! — 

Julius Caesar. 

Separated from the Lady Isabelle, whose looks had been 
for so many days his loadstar, Quentin felt a strange vacancy 
and chillness of the heart, which he had not yet experienced 
in any of the vicissitudes to which his life had subjected him. 
No doubt the cessation of the close and unavoidable inter¬ 
course and intimacy betwixt them was the necessary conse¬ 
quence of the countess having obtained a place of settled 
residence; for, under what pretext could she, had she meditated 
such an impropriety, have had a gallant young squire such as 
Quentin in constant attendance upon her? 

But the shock of the separation was not the more welcome 
that it seemed unavoidable, and the proud heart of Quentin 
swelled at finding he was parted with like an ordinary postilion, 
or an escort whose duty is discharged j while his eyes sympa¬ 
thised so far as to drop a secret tear or two over the ruins of 
all those airy castles, so many of which he had employed him¬ 
self in constructing during their too interesting journey. He 
made a manly, but at first a vain, effort to throw off this 
mental dejection; and so, yielding to the feelings he could not 
suppress, he sat him down in one of the deep recesses formed 
by a window which lighted the great Gothic hall of Schon- 
waldt, and there mused upon his hard fortune, which had not 
assigned him rank or wealth sufficient to prosecute his daring 
suit. 

Quentin tried to dispel the sadness which overhung him 
by dispatching Chariot, one of the valets, with letters to the 

284 


V 


28 i 


Quentin Durward 

court of Louis, announcing the arrival of the Ladies of Croye 
at Liege. At length his natural buoj^ancy of temper returned, 
much excited by the title of an old romaunt which had been 
just printed at Strasbourg, and which lay beside him in the 
window, the title of which set forth, 


How the squire of lowe degree. 

Loved the king’s daughter of Hongarie.^ 

While he was tracing the “letters blake” of the ditty so • 
congenial to his own situation, Quentin was interrupted by a 
touch on the shoulder, and, looking up, beheld the Bohemian 
standing by him. 

Hayraddin, never a welcome sight, was odious from his 
late treachery, and Quentin sternly asked him “Why he dared 
take the freedom to touch a Christian and a gentleman.” 

“Simply,” answered the Bohemfan, “because I wished to 
know if the Christian gentleman had lost his feeling as well 
as his eyes and ears. I have stood speaking to you these five 
minutes, and you have stared on that scrap of yellow paper as 
if it were a spell to turn you into a statue, and had already 
wrought half its purpose.” 

“Well, what dost thou want? Speak and begone!” 

“I want what all men want,, though few are satisfied with 
it,” said Hayraddin: “I want my due—my ten crowns of 
gold for guiding the ladies hither.” 

“With w'hat face darest thou ask any guerdon beyond my 
sparing thy worthless life?” said Durward, fiercely; “thou 
knowest that it was thy purpose to have betrayed them on the 
road.” 

“But I did not betray them,” said Hayraddin; “if I had, 

I would have asked no guerdon from you or from them, but 
from him whom their keeping upon the right-hand side of the 

• How the squire of lowe degree. There are two written black-letter editions 
of this old English poem or tale, but only one perfect copy is known, from which 
it was reprinted by Ritson, in his Ancient National Romances. 1802; and since, 
more accurately, in Mr. Hazlett's Collected Remains of Early Popular P'^Hry of 
England. 1866 (Laing) .—Scott. 


286 Quentin Durward 

river might have benefited. The party that I have served is 
the party who must pay me.” 

“Thy guerdon perish with thee, then, traitor! said 
Quentin, telling out the money. “Get thee to the Boar of 
Ardennes, or to the devil! but keep hereafter out of my sight, 
lest I send thee thither before thy time.” 

“The Boar of Ardennes!” repeated the Bohemian, with a 
stronger emotion of surprise than his features usually 
expressed; “it was then no vague guess—no general suspic¬ 
ion—which made you insist on changing the road? Can it 
be—are there really in other lands arts of prophecy more sure 
than those of our wandering tribes? The willow-tree under 

which we spoke could tell no tales. But no—no—no- 

Dolt that I was! I have it—I have it! The willow by the 
brook near yonder convent—I saw you look towards it as you 
passed it, about half a mile from yon hive of drones—that 
could not indeed speak, but it might hide one who could hear! 

I will hold my councils in an open plain henceforth: not a 
bunch of thistles shall be near me for a Scot to shroud 
amongst. Ha! ha! the Scot hath beat the Zingaro at his 
own subtle weapons. But know, Quentin Durward, that you 
have foiled me to the marring of thine own fortune. Yes! 
the fortune I told thee of, from the lines on thy hand, had 
been richly accomplished but for thine own obstinacy.” 

“By St. Andrew,” said Quentin, “thy impudence makes 
me laugh in spite of myself. How or in what should thy 
successful villainy have been of service to me? I heard, 
indeed, that j^ou did stipulate to save my life, which condition 
your worthy allies would speedily have forgotten had we once 
come to blows; but in what thy betrayal of these ladies could 
have served me, but by exposing me to death or captivity, is a 
matter beyond human brains to conjecture.” 

“No matter thinking of it, then,” said Hayraddin, “for I 
mean still to surprise you with my gratitude. Had you kept 
back my hire, I should have held that we were quit, and had 



287 


Quentin Durward 

left you to 5'our own foolish guidance. As it is, I remain your 
debtor for yonder matter on the banks of the Cher.” 

“Methinks I have already taken out the payment in 
cursing and abusing thee,” said Quentin. 

“Hard words or kind ones,” said the Zingaro, “are but 
wind, which make no weight in the balance. Had you struck 
me, indeed, instead of threatening-” 

“I am likely enough to take out payment in that way, if 
you provoke me longer.” 

“I would not advise it,” said the Zingaro; “such pay¬ 
ment, made by a rash hand., might exceed the debt, and 
unhappily leave a balance on your side, which I am not one to 
forget or forgive. And now farewell, but not for a long 
space; I go to bid adieu to the Ladies of Croye.” 

“Thou!” said Quentin in astonishment — ”thou be 
admitted to the presence of the ladies, and here, where they 
are in a manner recluses under the protection of the bishop’s 
sister, a noble canoness! It is impossible.” 

“Marthon, however, waits to conduct me to their pres¬ 
ence,” said the Zingaro, with a sneer; “and I must pray your 
forgiveness if I leave you somewhat abruptly.” 

He turned as if to depart, but instantly coming back, said, 
with a tone of deep and serious emphasis, “I know your hopes; 
they are daring, yet not vain if I aid them. I know your 
fears; they should teach prudence, not timidity. Every 
woman may be won. A count is but a nickname, which will 
befit Quentin as well as the other nickname of duke befits 
Charles, or that of king befits Louis.” 

Ere Durward could reply, the Bohemian had left the hall. 
Quentin instantly followed; but, better acquainted than the 
Scot with the passages of the house, Hayraddin kept the 
advantage which he had gotten; and the pursuer lost sight of 
him as he descended a small back staircase. Still Durward 
followed, though withoilt exact consciousness of his own pur¬ 
pose in doing so. The staircase terminated by a door opening 



288 


Quentin Durward 

into the alley of a garden, in which he again beheld the 
Zingaro hastening down a pleached walk/ 

On two sides, the garden was surrounded by the buildings 
of the castle—a huge old pile, partly castellated and partly 
resembling an ecclesiastical building; on the other two sides, 
the inclosure was a high embattled wall. Crossing the alleys 
of the garden to another part of the building, where a postern- 
door ^ opened behind a large massive buttress, overgrown with 
ivy, Hayraddin looked back, and waved his hand in signal of 
an exulting farewell to his follower, who saw that in effect 
the postern-door was opened by Marthon, and that the vile 
Bohemian was admitted into the precincts, as he naturally 
concluded, of the apartment of the Countesses of Croye. 
Quentin bit his lips with indignation, and blamed himself 
severely that he had not made the ladies sensible of the full 
infamy of Hayraddin’s character, and acquainted with his 
machinations against their safety. The arrogating manner in 
which the Bohemian had promised to back his suit added to 
his anger and his disgust; and he felt as if even the hand of the 
Countess Isabelle would be profaned,, were it possible to^ attain 
it by such patronage. “But it is all a deception,” he said—“a 
turn of his base juggling artifice. He has procured access to 
these ladies upon some false pretence, and with some mis¬ 
chievous intention. It is well I have learned where they 
lodge. I will watch Marthon, and solicit an interview with 
them, were it but to place them on their guard. It is hard 
that I must use artifice and brook delay when such as he have 
admittance openly and without scruple. They shall find, 
however, that, though I am excluded from their presence, 
Isabelle’s safety is still the chief subject of my vigilance.” 

While the young lover was thus meditating, an aged 
gentleman of the bishop’s household approached him from the 
same door by which he had himself entered the garden, and 
made him aware, though with the greatest civility of manner, 


^Pleached walk. Trellised; covered with vines. 
•Postern door. A rear door; from Latin poslerno. 


289 


Quentin Durward 

that the garden was private, and reserved only for the use of 
the bishop and guests of the very highest distinction. 

Quentin heard him repeat this information twice ere he 
put the proper construction upon it; and then starting as 
from a reverie, he bowed and hurried out of the garden, the 
official person following him all the w^ay, and overwhelming 
him with formal apologies for the necessary discharge of his 
duty. Nay, so pertinacious was he in his attempts to remove 
the offence which he conceived Durward to have taken, that 
he offered to bestow his own company upon him, to contribute 
to his entertainment; until Quentin internally cursing his 
formal foppery, found no better way of escape than pretend¬ 
ing a desire of visiting the neighbouring city, and setting off 
thither at such a round pace as speedily subdued all desire in 
the gentleman-usher to accompany him farther than the draw¬ 
bridge. In a few minutes Quentin was within the walls of 
the city of Liege, then one of the richest in Flanders, and of 
course in the world. 

Melancholy, even love-melancholy, is not so deeply seated, 
at least in minds of a manly and elastic character, as the soft 
enthusiasts who suffer under it are fond of believing. It yields 
to unexpected and striking impressions upon the senses, to 
change of place, to such scenes as create new trains of associa¬ 
tion, and to the influence of the busy hum of mankind. In a 
few minutes, Quentin’s attention was as much engrossed by 
the variety of objects presented in rapid succession by the busy 
streets of Liege as if there had neither been a Countess Isabelle 
nor a Bohemian in the world. 

The lofty houses; the stately, though narrow and gloomy, 
streets; the splendid display of the richest goods and most 
gorgeous armour in the warehouses and shops around; the 
walks crowded by busy citizens of every description, passing 
and repassing with faces of careful importance or eager bustle; 
the huge wains, which transported to and fro the subjects of 
export and import, the former consisting of broadcloths and 
serge, arms of all kinds, nails and iron-work, while the latter 


290 Quentin Durward 

comprehended every article of use or luxury intended eithei 
for the consumption of an opulent city or received in bartes 
and destined to be transported elsewhere—all these objects 
combined to form an engrossing picture of wealth, bustle, and 
splendour, to which Quentin had been hitherto a stranger. 
He admired also the various streams ^d canals drawn from 
and communicating with the Maes, which, traversing the city 
in various directions, offered to every quarter the commercial 
facilities of water-carriage; and he failed not to hear a mass 
in the venerable old church of St. Lambert, said to have been 
founded in the 8 th century. 

It was upon leaving this place of worship that Quentin 
began to observe that he, who had been hitherto gazing on all 
around him with the eagerness of unrestrained curiosity, was 
himself the object of attention to several groups of substantial- 
looking burghers, who seemed assembled to look upon him as 
he left the church, and amongst whom arose a buzz and 
whisper, which spread from one party to another; while the 
number of gazers continued to augment rapidly, and the eyes 
of each who added to it were eagerly directed to Quentin, 
with a stare which expressed much interest and curiosity, 
mingled with a certain degree of respect. 

At length he now formed the centre of a considerable 
crowd, which yet yielded before him while he continued to 
move forward; while those who followed or kept pace with 
him studiously avoided pressing on him or impeding his 
motions. Yet his situation was too embarrassing to be long 
endured, without making some attempt to extricate himself, 
and to obtain some explanation. 

Quentin looked around him, and fixing upon a jolly, 
stout-made, respectable man, whom, by his velvet cloak and 
gold chain, he concluded to be a burgher of eminence, and 
perhaps a magistrate, he asked him, “Whether he saw any¬ 
thing particular in his appearance, to attract public attention 
in a degree so unusual? or whether it was the ordinary custom 


29 


Quentin Durvvard 

of the people of Liege thus to throng around strangers who 
chanced to visit their city?” 

“Surely not, good seignior,,” ansvcered the burgher; “the 
Liegeois are neither so idly curious as to practise such a cus¬ 
tom, nor is there anything in your dress or appearance, saving 
that vchich is most w^elcome to this city, and which our towns¬ 
men are both delighted to see and desirous to honour.” 

“This sounds very polite, w^orthy sir,” said Quentin; “but, 
by the cross of St. Andrew^ I cannot even guess at your 
meaning.” 

“Your oath, sir,” answ’-ered the merchant of Liege, “as 
w’ell as your accent, convinces me that we are right in our 
conjecture.” 

“By my patron St. Quentin!” said Durward, “I am 
farther off from your meaning than ever.” 

“There again, now,” rejoined the Liegeois, looking, as he 
spoke, most provokingly, yet most civilly, politic and intel¬ 
ligent. “It is surely not for us to see that which you, worthy 
seignior, deem it proper to conceal. But why swear by St. 
Quentin, if you would not have me construe your meaning? 
We know the good Count of St. Paul, who lies there at 
present, wishes well to our cause.” 

“On my life,” said Quentin, “you are under some delus¬ 
ion : I know nothing hf St. Paul.” 

“Nay, w^e question )^ou not,” said the burgher; “although,, 
hark ye—I say, hark in your ear—my name is Pavilion.” 

“And what is my business with that. Seignior Pavilion?” 
said Quentin. 

“Nay, nothing; only methinks it might satisfy you that I 
am trustworthy. Here is my colleague Rouslaer, too.” 

Rouslaer advanced, a corpulent dignitary, whose fair 
round belly, like a battering-ram, “did shake the press before 
him,” and who, whispering caution to his neighbour, said, in 
a tone of rebuke, “You forget, good colleague, the place is too 
open; the seignior will retire to your house or mine, and 
drink a glass of Rhenish and sugar, and then w^e shall hear 


292 Quentin Durward 

more of our good friend and ally, whom we love with all our 
honest Flemish hearts.” 

“I have no news for any of you,” said Quentin, impa¬ 
tiently; “I will drink no Rhenish; and I only desire of you 
as men of account and respectability, to disperse this idle 
crowd, and allow a stranger to leave yohr town as quietly as 
he came into it.” 

“Nay, then, sir,” said Rouslaer, “since you stand so much 
on your incognito, and with us, too, who are men of con¬ 
fidence, let me ask you roundly, wherefore wear you the 
badge of your company if you would remain unknown in 
Liege?” 

“What badge and what order?” said Quentin. “You look 
like reverend men and grave citizens, yet, on my soul, you are 
either mad yourselves or desire to drive me so.” 

“Sapperment!”^ said the other burgher, “this youth would 
make St. Lambert ^ swear! Why, who wear bonnets with the 
St. Andrew’s cross and- fleur-de-lys save the Scottish Archers 
of King Louis’s Guards?” 

“And supposing I am an archer of the Scottish Guard, 
why should you make a wonder of my wearing the badge of 
my company?” said Quentin impatiently. 

“He has avowed it—he has avowed.it!” said Rouslaer and 
Pavilion, turning to the assembled burghers in attitudes of 
congratulation, with waving arms, extended palms, and large 
round faces radiating with glee. “He hath avowed himself 
an archer of Louis’s Guard—of Louis, the guardian of the 
liberties of Liege!” 

A general shout and cry now arose from the multitude, 
in which were mingled the various sounds of “Long live 
Louis of France! Long live the Scottish Guard ! Long live 
the valiant archer! Our liberties, our privileges or death! 
No imposts! Long live the valiant Boar of Ardennes! Down 


^Sapperment. Zounds! 

^St. Lambert. Patron saint of Liege. 


Quentin Durward 293 

with Charles of Burgundy! and confusion to Bourbon and 
his bishopric!” 

Half-stunned by the noise, which began anew in one 
quarter so soon as it ceased in another, rising and falling like 
the billows of the sea, and augmented by thousands of voices 
which roared in chorus from distant streets and market-places, 
Quentin had yet time to form a conjecture concerning the 
meaning of the tumult, and a plan for regulating his own 
conduct. 

He had forgotten that, after.his skirmish with Orleans 
and Dunois, one of his comrades had, at Lord Crawford’s 
command, replaced the morion, cloven by the sword of the 
latter, with one of the steel-lined bonnets which formed a part 
of the proper and well-known equipment of the Scotch 
Guards. That an individual of this body, which was always 
kept very close to Louis’s person, should have appeared in the 
streets of a city whose civil discontents had been aggravated 
by the agents of that king, was natqrally enough interpreted 
by the burghers of Liege into a determination on the part of 
Louis openly to assist their cause; and the apparition of an 
individual archer was magnified into a pledge of immediate 
and active support from Louis—nay, into an assurance that 
his auxiliary forces were actually entering the town at one or 
other, though no one could distinctly tell which, of the city 
gates. 

To remove a conviction so generally adopted, Quentin 
easily saw was impossible—nay, that any attempt to undeceive 
men so obstinately prepossessed in their belief would be 
attended with personal risk, which, in this case, he saw little 
use of incurring. He therefore hastily resolved to temporise, 
and to get free the best way he could; and this resolution he 
formed while they were in the act of conducting him to the 
stadt-house} where the notables of the town were fast assem¬ 
bling, in order to hear the tidings which he was presumed to 
have brought, and to regale him with a splendid banquet. 

^Stadt-hoiise. German Stadl-Haus; town house, city hall. 


294 Quentin Durward 

In spite of all his opposition, which was set down to 
modesty, he was on every side surrounded by the donors of 
popularity, the unsavoury tide of which now floated around 
him. His two burgomaster friends, who were schoppen 
lsch6jfen"[, or syndics, of the city, had^ made fast both his 
arms. Before him, Nikkei Blok, the chief of the butchers’ 
incorporation, hastily summoned from his office in the shambles, 
brandished his death-doing axe, yet smeared with blood and 
brains, with a courage and grace which brantwem^ alone 
could inspire. Behind him came the tall, lean, raw-boned, 
very drunk, and very patriotic, figure of Claus Hammerlein, 
president of the mystery of the workers in iron, and followed 
by at least a thousand unwashed artificers of his class. 
Weavers, nailers, ropemakers, artisans of every degree and 
calling, thronged forward to join the procession from every 
gloomy and narrow street. Escape seemed a desperate and 
impossible adventure. 

In this dilemma, Quentin appealed to Rouslaer, who held 
one arm, and to Pavilion, who had secured the other, and 
who were conducting him forward at the head of the ovation 
of which he had so unexpectedly become the principal object. 
He hastily acquainted them “with his having thoughtlessly 
adopted the bonnet of the Scottish Guard, on an accident 
having occurred to the head-piece in which he had proposed 
tc travel; he regretted that, owing to this circumstance and 
the sharp wit with which the Liegeois drew the natural 
inference of his quality and the purpose of his visit, these 
things had been publicly discovered; and he intimated that, if 
just now conducted to the stadt-house, he might unhappily 
feel himself under the necessity of communicating to the 
assembled notables certain matters which he was directed by 
the King to reserve for the private ears of his excellent gossips, 
Meinherrs Rouslaer and Pavilion of Liege.” 

This last hint operated like magic on the two citizens, who 
were the most distinguished leaders of the insurgent burghers, 


^ Brantwein. Brandy. 


295 


Quentin Durward 

and were, like all demagogues of their kind, desirous to keep 
everything w^ithin their own management, so far as possible. 
They therefore hastily agreed that Quentin should leave the 
town for the time and return by night to Liege, and converse 
with them privately in the house of Rouslaer, near the gate 
opposite to Schonwaldt. Quentin hesitated not to tell them 
that he was at present residing in the bishop’s palace, under 
pretence of bearing despatches from the French court, 
although his real errand was, as they had well conjectured, 
designed to the citizens of Liege; and this tortuous mode of 
conducting a communication, as well as the character and 
rank of the person to whom it was supposed to be entrusted, 
was so consonant to the character of Louis as neither to excite 
doubt nor surprise. 

Almost immediately after this eclaircissement^ was com¬ 
pleted, the progress of the multitude brought them opposite to 
the door of Pavilion’s house, in one of the principal streets, 
but which communicated from behind with the Maes by 
means of a garden, as well as an extensive manufactory of 
tan-pits and other conveniences for dressing hides; for the 
patriotic burgher was a felt-dresser, or currier. 

It was natural that Pavilion should desire to do the 
honours of his dwelling to the supposed envoy of Louis, and a 
halt before his house excited no surprise on the part of the 
multitude, who, on the contrary, greeted Meinherr Pavilion 
with a loud vivat" as he ushered in his distinguished guest. 
Quentin speedily laid aside his remarkable bonnet for the cap 
of a felt-maker, and flung a cloak over his other apparel. 
Pavilion then furnished him with a passport to pass the gates 
of the city, and to return by night or day as should suit his 
convenience; and, lastly, committed him to the charge of his 
daughter, a fair and smiling Flemish lass, with instructions 
how he was to be disposed of, while he himself hastened back 
to his colleague to amuse their friends at the stadt-house with 

i Adair cissement. Explanation. 

A cheer; long life to him I 


296 


Quentin Durward 

the best excuses which they could invent for the disappearance 
of King Louis’s envoy. We cannot, as the footman says in 
the play, recollect the exact nature of the lie which the bell¬ 
wethers told the flock; but no task is so easy as that of 
imposing upon a multitude whose eager prejudices have more 
than half done the business, ere the impostor has spoken a 
word.^ 

The worthy burgess w^as no sooner gone than his plump 
daughter, Trudchen, with many a blush and many a wreathed 
smile, which suited very prettily with lips like cherries, laugh¬ 
ing blue eyes, and a skin transparently pure, escorted the 
handsome stranger through the pleached alleys of the Sieur 
Pavilion’s garden, down to the water-side, and there saw him 
fairly embarked in a boat, which two stout Flemings, in their 
trunk-hose, fur caps, and many-buttoned jerkins, had got in 
readiness with as much haste as their Low-Country nature 
would permit. 

As the pretty Trudchen spoke nothing but German, 
Quentin—no disparagement to his loyal affection to the 
Countess of Croye—could only express his thanks by a kiss on 
those same cherry lips, which was very gallantly bestowed, 
and accepted with all modest gratitude; for gallants with a 
form and face like our Scottish Archer were not of every-day 
occurrence among the bourgeoisie ^ of Liege. 

While the boat was rowed up the sluggish waters of the 
Maes, and passed the defences of the town, Quentin had time 
enough to reflect what account he ought to give of his adven¬ 
ture in Liege, when he returned to the bishop’s palace of 
Schonwaldt; and disdaining alike to betray any person who 
had reposed confidence in him, although by misapprehension, 
or to conceal from the hospitable prelate the mutinous state of 
his capital, he resolved to confine himself to so general an 
account as might put the bishop upon his guard, while it 
should point out no individual to his vengeance. 

iSee Note 18 .— Quentin's Adventure at Liege. 

^Bourgeoisie. The common people, the trading class: as distinguished from 
the nobility. 


Quentin Durward 297 

He was landed from the boat within half a mile of the 
castle, and rewarded his rowers with a guilder,^ to their great 
satisfaction. Yet short as was the space which divided him 
from Schonwaldt, the castle bell had tolled for dinner, and 
Quentin found, moreover, that he had approached the castle 
on a different side from that of the principal entrance, and 
that to go round would throw his arrival considerably later. 
He therefore made straight towards the side that was nearest 
him, as he discerned that it presented an embattled wall, prob¬ 
ably that of the little garden already noticed, with a pOstern 
opening upon the moat, and a skiff moored by the postern, 
which might serve, he thought, upon summons, to pass him 
over. As he approached, in hopes to make his entrance this 
way, the postern opened, a man came out, and jumping into 
the boat, made his way to the farther side of the moat, and 
then with a long pole pushed the skiff back towards the- place 
where he had embarked. As he came near, Quentin discerned 
that this person was the Bohemian, who, avoiding him, as was 
not difficult, held a different path towards Liege, and was 
presently out of his ken. 

Here was new subject for meditation. Had this vaga¬ 
bond heathen been all this while with the Ladies of Croye, 
and for what purpose should they so far have graced him with 
their presence? Tormented with this thought, Durward 
became doubly determined to seek an explanation with them, 
for the purpose at once of laying bare the treachery of Hay- 
raddin and announcing to them the perilous state in which 
their protector, the bishop, was placed by the mutinous state 
of his town of Liege. 

As Quentin thus resolved, he entered the castle by the 
principal gate, and found that part of the family who 
assembled for dinner in the great hall, including the bishop’s 
attendant clergy, officers of the household, and strangers 
below the rank of the very first nobility, were already placed 
at their meal. A seat at the upper end of the board had, 

^Guilder. A Dutch coin valued at about forty cents. 


29S 


Quentin Durward 


however, been reserved beside the bishop’s domestic chaplain, 
who welcomed the stranger with the old college jest of ‘'Sero 
venientibus ossa/'^ while he took care so to load his plate with 
dainties as to take away all appearancfc of that tendency to 
reality which, in Quentin’s country, is said to render a joke 
either no joke, or at best an unpalatable one.“ 

In vindicating himself from the suspicion of ill-breeding, 
Quentin briefly described the tumult which had been occa¬ 
sioned in the city by his being discovered to belong to the 
Scottish Archer Guard of Louis, and endeavoured to give a 
ludicrous turn to the narrative, by saying that he had been 
with difficulty extricated by a fat burgher of Liege and his 
pretty daughter. 

But the company were too much interested in the story to 
taste the jest. A.11 operations of the table were suspended 
while Quentin told his tale; and when he had ceased, there 
was a solemn pause, which was only broken by the major- 
domo saying, in a low and melancholy tone, “I would to God 
that we saw those hundred lances of Burgundy!” 

“Why should you think so deeply on it?” said Quentin. 
“You have many soldiers here, whose trade is arms; and your 
antagonists are only the rabble of a disorderly city, who will 
fly before the first flutter of a banner with men-at-arms 
arrayed beneath it.” 

“You do not know the men of Liege,” said the chaplain,, 
“of whom it may be said that, not even excepting those of 
Ghent, they are at once the fiercest and most untameable in 
Europe. Twice has the Duke of Burgundy chastised them for 
their repeated revolts against their bishop, and twice hath he 
suppressed them with much severity, abridged their privileges, 
taken away their banners, and established rights and claims to 
himself which were not before competent over a free city of 

^Sero venientibus ossa. For late comers, the bones. 

^An unpalatable one. ‘A sooth board (true joke) is no board,’ says the Scot. 


Quentin Durward 


299 


the Empire/ Nay, the last time he defeated them with much 
slaughter near St. Tron, where Liege lost nearly six thousand 
men, what wdth the sword, what with those drowned in the 
flight; and, thereafter, to disable them from farther mutiny, 
Duke Charles refused to enter at any of the gates which they 
had surrendered, but, beating to the ground forty cubits 
breadth of their city wall, marched into Liege as a conqueror, 
with visor closed and lance in rest, at the head of his chivalry, 
by the breach which he had made. Nay, well were the 
Liegeois then assured that, but for the intercession of his 
father, Duke Philip the Good, this Charles, then called Count 
of Charalois, would have given their town up to spoil. And 
yet, with all these fresh recollections, with their breaches 
unrepaired, and their arsenals scarcely supplied, the sight of an 
archer’s bonnet is sufficient again to stir them to uproar. May 
God amend all! but I fear there will be bloody work between 
so fierce a population and so fiery a sovereign; and I would 
my excellent and kind master had a see of lesser dignity and 
more safety, for his mitre is lined with thorns instead of 
ermine. This much I say to you seignior stranger, to make 
you aware that, if your affairs detain you not at Schonwaldt,, 
k is a place from which each man of sense should depart as 
speedily as possible. I apprehend that your ladies are of the 
same opinion; for one of the grooms who attended them on 
the route has been sent back by them to the court of France 
with letters, which, doubtless, are intended to announce their 
going in search of a safer asylum.” 

^Free city of the Empire. There were certain towns, of which Liege was o^, 
which were independent of Duke or King; they ruled their own affairs, their offi¬ 
cers being elective. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE BILLET 

Go to—thou art made, if thou desirest to be so. If not, let me see thee 
still the fellow of servants, and not fit to touch Fortune’s fingers. 

Twelfth Night. 

When the tables were drawn, the chaplain, who seemed 
to have taken a sort of attachment to Quentin Durward’s 
society, or who perhaps desired to extract from him farther 
information concerning the meeting of the morning, led him 
into a withdrawing-apartment, the windows of which, on one 
side, projected into the garden; and as he saw his companion’s 
eye gaze rather eagerly upon the spot, he proposed to Quentin 
to go down and take a view of the curious foreign shrubs with 
which the bishop had enriched its parterres. 

Quentin excused himself, as unwilling to intrude, and 
therewithal communicated the check which he had received 
in the morning. The chaplain smiled, and said, “That there 
was indeed some ancient prohibition respecting the bishop’s 
private garden; but this,” he added with a smile, “was when 
our reverend father was a princely young prelate of not more 
than thirty years of age, and when many fair ladies frequented 
the castle for ghostly consolation. Need there was,” he said, with 
a downcast look, and a smile, half simple and half intelligent, 
“that these ladies,, pained in conscience, who were ever lodged 
in the apartments now occupied by the noble canoness, should 
have some space for taking the air, secure from the intrusion 
of the profane. But of late years,” he added, “this prohibition, 
although not formally removed, has fallen entirely out of 
observance, and remains hut as the superstition which lingers 
in the brain of a superannuated gentleman-usher. If you 


300 


301 


Quentin Durward 

please,” he added, “we will presently descend, and try whether 
the place be haunted or no.” 

Nothing could have been more agreeable to Quentin than 
the prospect of a free entrance into the garden, through means 
of which, according to a chance which had hitherto attended 
his passion, he hoped to communicate with, or at least obtain 
sight of, the object of his affections, from some such turret or 
balcony-window, or similar “coign of vantage,” as at the 
hostelry of the Fleur-de-Lys, near Plessis, or the Dauphin’s 
Tower, within that castle itself. Isabelle seemed still destined, 
wherever she made her abode, to be the “lady of the turret.” 

When Durward descended with his new friend* into the 
garden, the latter seemed a terrestrial philosopher, entirely 
busied with the things of the earth; while the eyes of Quentin, 
if they did not seek the heavens, like those of an astrologer, 
ranged at least all around the windows, balconies, and espe¬ 
cially the turrets, which projected on every part from the 
inner front of the old building, in order to discover that 
which was to be his cynosure.^ 

While thus employed, the young lover heard with total 
neglect, if indeed he heard at all, the enumeration of plants, 
herbs, and shrubs, which his reverend conductor pointed out 
to him; of which this was choice,, because of prime use in 
medicine; and that more choice, for yielding a rare flavour to 
pottage; and a third choicest of all, because possessed of no 
merit but its extreme scarcity. Still it was necessary to pre¬ 
serve some semblance at least of attention; which the youth 
found so difficult, that he fairly wished at the devil the 
offlcious naturalist and the whole vegetable kingdom. He was 
relieved at length by the striking of a clock, which summoned 
the chaplain to some official duty. 

The reverend man made many unnecessary apologies for 
leaving his new friend, and concluded by giving him the 

^Cynosure. The “dog’s tail,” a name given by the Latins to the constellation 
Little Bear which contains the Pole-Star, by which seamen used formerly to steer 
and to which they often directed their gaze. Thus the word came to mean any¬ 
thing to which attention is strongly attracted. 


302 Quentin Durward 

agreeable assurance, that he might walk in the garden till 
supper, without much risk of being disturbed. 

“It is,” said he, “the place where I always study my own 
homilies, as being most sequestered from the resort of strangers. 
I am now about to deliver one of them in the chapel, if you 
please to favour me with your audience. I have been thought 
to have some gift—but the glory be where it is due!” 

Quentin excused himself for this evening, under pretence 
of a severe headache, which the open air was likely to prove 
the best cure for; and at length the well-meaning priest left 
him to himself. 

It may be well imagined, that in the curious inspection 
which he now made, at more leisure, of every window or 
aperture which looked into the garden, those did not escape 
which were in the immediate neighbourhood of the small door 
by which he had seen Marthon admit Hayraddin, as he pre¬ 
tended, to the apartment of the countesses. But nothing 
stirred or showed itself, which could either confute or confirm 
the tale which the Bohemian had told,, until it was becoming 
dusky; and Quentin began to be sensible, he scarce knew 
why, that his sauntering so long in the garden might be sub¬ 
ject of displeasure or suspicion. 

Just as he had resolved to depart, and was taking what he 
had destined for his last turn under the windows which had 
such attraction for him, he heard above him a slight and 
cautious sound, like that of a cough, as intended to call his 
attention, and to avoid the observation of others. As he looked 
up in joyful surprise, a casement opened—a female hand was 
seen to drop a billet, which fell into a rosemary bush that 
grew at the foot of the wall. The precaution used in dropping 
this letter prescribed equal prudence and secrecy in reading it. 
The garden, surrounded, as we have said, upon two sides by 
the buildings of the palace, was commanded, of course, by 
the windows of many apartments; but there was a sort of 
grotto of rock-work, which the chaplain had shown Durward 
with much complacency^ To snatch up the billet, thrust it 


303 


Quentin Durward 

into his bosom, and hie to this place of secrecy, was the work 
of a single minute. He there opened the precious scroll, and 
blessed, at the same time, the memory of the monks of Aber- 
brothock, whose nurture had rendered him capable of decipher¬ 
ing its contents. 

The first line contained the injunction, “Read this in 
secret,”—and the contents were as follows: “What your eyes 
have too boldly said mine have perhaps too rashly understood. 
But unjust persecution makes its victims bold, and it were 
better to throw myself on the gratitude of one than to remain 
the object of pursuit to many. Fortune has her throne upon 
a rock; but brave men fear not to climb. If you dare do 
aught for one that hazards much, you need but pass into this 
garden at prime tomorrow, wearing in your cap a blue-and- 
white feather; but expect no farther communication. Your 
stars, have, they say, destined you for greatness, and disposed 
3 'ou to gratitude. Farewell—be faithful, prompt, and reso¬ 
lute, and doubt not thy fortune.” Within this letter was 
enclosed a ring with a table-diamond,^ on which were cut, in 
form of a lozenge,” the ancient arms of the house of Croye. 

The first feeling of Quentin upon this occasion was 
unmingled ecstasy—a pride and joy which seemed to raise him 
to the stars,—a determination to do or die,, influenced by 
which he treated with scorn the thousand obstacles that placed 
themselves betwixt him and the goal of his wishes. 

In this mood of rapture, and unable to endure any inter¬ 
ruption which might withdraw his mind, were it but for a 
moment, from so ecstatic a subject of contemplation, Dur¬ 
ward, retiring to the interior of the castle, hastily assigned 
his former pretext of a headache for not joining the household 
of the bishop at the supper-meal, and, lighting his lamp, 
betook himself to the chamber which had been assigned him, 

^Table-diamond. A diamond in which the flat upper surface is large in pro¬ 
portion to the faceted sides. 

^Lozenge. Diamond-shaped; the arms of spinsters and widows were usually 
borne on a field of this shape. 


304 


Quentin Durward 

to read, and to read again and again, the precious billet, and 
to kiss a thousand times the no less preciou^ ring. 

But such high-wrought feelings could not remain long in 
the same ecstatic tone. A thought pressed upon him, though 
he repelled it as ungrateful—as even blasphemous, that the 
frankness of the confession implied less delicacy, on the part 
of her who made it, than was consistent with the high 
romantic feeling of adoration with which he had hitherto 
worshipped the Lady Isabelle. No sooner did this ungracious 
thought intrude itself than he hastened to stifle it, as he would 
have stifled a hissing and hateful adder that had intruded 
itself into his couch. Was it for him—him the favoured,, on 
whose account she had stooped from her sphere, to ascribe 
blame to her for the very act of condescension, without which 
he dared not have raised his eyes towards her? Did not her 
very dignity of birth and of condition reverse, in her case, the 
usual rules which impose silence on the lady until her lover 
shall have first spoken? To these arguments, which he boldly 
formed into syllogisms, and avowed to himself, his vanity 
might possibly suggest one which he cared not to embody even 
mentally with the same frankness—that the merit of the party 
beloved might perhaps warrant, on the part of the lady, some 
little departure from common rules; and, after all, as in the 
case of Malvolio,^ there was example for it in chronicle. The 
squite of low degree, of whom he had just been reading, was, 
like himself, a gentleman void of land and living, and yet the 
generous Princess of Hungary bestowed on him, without 
scruple, more substantial marks of her affection than the billet 
he had just received:— 

“Welcome,” she said, “my swete squyre. 

My heartis roote, my soule’s desire; 

I will give thee kisses three, 

And als five hundrid poundis in fee.” 

'Malvolio, in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, aspires, like Quentin, to the hand 
of tlie wealthy countess whom he serves, and, like Quentin, finds precedent for 
his aspiration. Compare Twelfth Night, II: 5, 36. 


Quentin Durward 


305 


And again the same faithful history made the King of 
Hongrie himself avouch, 

“I have yknown many a page 
Come to be prince by marriage.” 

So that, upon the whole, Quentin generously and magnani¬ 
mously reconciled himself to a line of conduct on the countess’s 
part by which he was likely to be so highly benefited. 

But this scruple was succeeded by another doubt, harder 
of digestion. The traitor Hayraddin had been in the apart¬ 
ments of the ladies, for aught Quentin knew, for the space of 
four hours, and, considering the hints which he had thrown 
out, of possessing an influence of the most interesting kind 
over the fortunes of Quentin Durward, what should assure 
him that this train was not of his laying? and if so, was it not 
probable that such a dissembling villain had set it on foot to 
conceal some new plan of treachery—perhaps to seduce Isa¬ 
belle out of the protection of the worthy bishop ? This was a 
matter to be closely looked into, for Quentin felt a repugnance 
to this individual proportioned to the unabashed impudence 
with which he had avowed his profligacy, and could not bring 
himself to hope that anything in which he was concerned 
could ever come to an honourable or happy conclusion. 

These various thoughts rolled over Quentin’s mind like 
misty clouds, to dash and obscure the fair landscape which his 
fancy had at first drawn, and his couch was that night a sleep¬ 
less one. At the hour of prime, ay, and an hour before it, was 
he in the castle-garden, where no one now opposed either his 
entrance or his abode, with a feather of the assigned colour, 
as distinguished as he could by any means procure in such 
haste. No notice was taken of his appearance for nearly two 
hours; at length he heard a few notes of the lute, and pres¬ 
ently the lattice opened right above the little postern-door at 
which Marthon had admitted Hayraddin, and Isabelle, in 
maidenly beauty, appeared at the opening, greeted him half- 
kindly, half-shyly, coloured extremely at the deep and signifi- 


306 


Quentin Durward 

cant reverence with which he returned her courtesy, shut the 
casement and disappeared. 

Daylight and champaign ^ could discover no more! The 
authenticity of the billet was ascertained; it only remained 
what was to follow, and of this the fair writer had given him 
no hint. But no immediate danger impended. The countess 
was in a strong castle, under the protection of a prince, at 
once respectable for his secular, and venerable for his ecclesi¬ 
astical authority. There was neither immediate room nor 
occasion for the exulting squire interfering in the adventure; 
and it was sufficient if he kept himself prompt to execute her 
commands whenever they should be communicated to him. 
But h'ate purposed to call him into action sooner than he was 
aware of. 

It was the fourth night after his arrival at Schonwaldt, 
when Quentin had taken measures for sending back on the 
morrow, to the court of Louis, the remaining groom who had 
accompanied him on his journey, with letters from himself to 
his uncle and Lord Craw^ford, renouncing the service of 
France, for wffiich the treachery to which he had been exposed 
by the private instructions of Hayraddin gave him an excuse,, 
both in honour and prudence; and he betook himself to his bed 
with all the rosy-coloured ideas around him which flutter 
about the couch of a youth when he loves dearly, and thinks 
his love as sincerely repaid. 

But Quentin’s dreams, which at first partook of the nature 
of those happy influences under which he had fallen asleep, 
began by degrees to assume a more terrific character. 

He walked with the Countess Isabelle beside a smooth and 
inland lake, such as formed the principal characteristic of his 
native glen; and he spoke to her of his love, without any con¬ 
sciousness of the impediments which lay between them. She 
blushed and smiled when she listened, even as he might have 
expected from the tenor of the letter, which sleeping or 
waking, lay nearest to his heart. But the scene suddenly 


^ Champaign . A flat open country. 


307 


Quentin Durward 

changed from summer to winter, from calm to tempest; the 
winds and the waves rose with such a contest of surge and 
whirlwind, as if the demons of .the water and of the air had 
been contending for their roaring empires in rival strife. The 
rising w^aters seemed to cut off their advance and their retreat; 
the increasing tempest, which dashed them against each other, 
seemed to render their remaining on the spot impossible; and 
the tumultuous sensations produced by the apparent danger 
awoke the dreamer. 

He awoke; but although the circumstances of the vision 
had disappeared, and given place to reality, the noise, which 
had probably suggested them, still continued to sound in his 
ears. 

Quentin’s first impulse was to sit erect in bed, and listen 
with astonishment to sounds, which, if they had announced a 
tempest, might have shamed the wildest that ever burst down 
from the Grampians; and again in a minute he became 
sensible, that the tumult w'as not excited by the fury of the 
elements, but by the wrath of men. 

He sprung from bed, and looked from the window of his 
apartment; but it opened into the garden, and on that side all 
was quiet, though the opening of the casement made him still 
more sensible, from the shouts which reached his ears, that the 
outside of the castle was beleaguered and assaulted, and that 
by a numerous and determined enemy. Hastily collecting his 
dress and arms, and putting them on with such celerity as 
darkness and surprise permitted, his attention was solicited by 
a knocking at the door of his chamber. As Quentin did not 
immediately answer, the door, which was a slight one, wa? 
forced open from without, and the intruder, announced by his 
peculiar dialect to be the-Bohemian, Hayraddin Maugrabin, 
entered the apartment. A phial, which he held in his hand, 
touched by a match,, produced a dark flash of ruddy fire, by 
means of which he kindled a lamp, which he took from his 
bosom. 

“The horoscope of your destinies,” he said energetically to 


308 Quentin Durward 

Durward, without further greeting, “now turns upon the 
determination of a minute.” 

“Caitiff!” said Quentin, in reply, “there is treachery 
around us; and where there is treachery, thou inust have a 
share in it.” 

“You are mad,” answered Maugrabin; “I never betrayed 
any one but to gain by it, and wherefore should I betray you, 
by whose safety I can take more advantage than by your 
destruction? Hearken for a moment, if it be possible for you, 
to one note of reason ere it is sounded into your ear by the 
death-shot of ruin. The Liegeois are up; William de la 
Marck with his band leads them. Were there means of 
resistance, their numbers and his fury would overcome them; 
but there are next to none. If you would save the countess 
and jour own hopes, follow me, in the name of her.w’ho sent 
you a table-diamond, with three leopards engraved on it!” 

“Lead the way,” said Quentin, hastily. “In that name I 
dare every danger!” 

“As I shall manage it,” said the Bohemian,, “there is no 
danger, if you can but withhold your hand from strife which 
does not concern you; for, after all, what is it to you whether 
the bishop, as they call him, slaughters his flock, or the flock 
slaughters the shepherd? Ha! ha! ha! Follow me, hut with 
caution and patience; subdue your own courage, and confide 
in my prudence; and my debt of thankfulness is paid, and you 
have a countess for your spouse. Follow me.” 

“I follow,” said Quentin, drawing his sword; “but the 
moment in which I detect the least sign of treachery, thy head 
and body are three yards separate!” 

Without more conversation, the Bohemian, seeing that 
Quentin was now fully armed and ready, ran down the stairs 
before him, and winded hastily through various side-passages, 
until they gained the little garden. Scarce a light was to be 
seen on that side, scarce any bustle was to be heard; but no 
sooner had Quentin entered the open space than the noise on 


309 


Quentin Durward 

the opposite side of the castle became ten times more, stun- 
ningly audible, and he could hear the various war-cries of 
“Liege! Liege! Sanglier! Sanglier!” shouted by the assail¬ 
ants, while the feebler cry of “Our Lady for the Prince 
Bishop!” was raised in a faint and faltering tone, by those of 
the prelate’s soldiers who had hastened, though surprised and 
at disadvantage, to the defence of the walls. 

But the interest of the fight, notwithstanding the martial 
character of Quentin Durward, was indifferent to him in 
comparison of the fate of Isabelle of Croye, which, he had 
reason to fear, would be a dreadful one, unless rescued from 
from the power of the dissolute and cruel freebooter, who was 
now, as it seemed, bursting the gates of the castle. He recon¬ 
ciled himself to the aid of the Bohemian, as men in a desperate 
illness refuse not the remedy prescribed by quacks and mounte¬ 
banks, and followed across the garden, with the intention of 
being guided by him until he should discover symptoms of 
treachery, and then piercing him through the heart, or 
striking his head from his body. Hayraddin seemed himself 
conscious that his safety turned on a feather-weight, for he 
forbore, from the moment they entered the open air, all his 
wonted gibes and quirks, and seemed to have made a vow to 
act at once with modesty, courage, and activity. 

At the opposite door, which led to the ladies’ apartments, 
upon a low signal made by Hayraddin, appeared two women, 
muffled in the black silk veils which were then, as now, worn 
by the women in the Netherlands. Quentin offered his arm 
to one of them, who clung to it with trembling eagerness, and 
indeed hung upon him so much that had her weight been 
greater she must have much impeded their retreat. The 
Bohemian, who conducted the other female, took the road 
straight for the postern which opened upon the moat, through 
the garden-wall, close to which the little skiff was drawn up, 
by means of which Quentin had formerly observed Hayraddin 
himself retreating from the castle. 


310 


Quentin Durward 

As they crossed, the shouts of storm and successful 
violence seemed to announce that the castle w^as in the act of 
being taken j and so dismal was the sound in Quentin s ears, 
that he could not help swearing aloud, “But that my blood is 
irretrievably devoted to the fulfilment of my present duty, I 
would back to the wall, take faithful part with the hospitable 
bishop, and silence some of those knaves whose throats are full 
of mutiny and robbery!” 

The lady, whose arm was still folded in his, pressed it 
lightly as he spoke, as if to make him understand that there 
was a nearer claim on his chivalry than the defence of Schon- 
waldt; while the Bohemian exclaimed, loud enough to be 
heard, “Now, that I call right Christian frenzy, which would 
turn back to fight, when love and fortune both demand that 
we should fly. On—on, with all the haste you can make. 
Horses wait us in yonder thicket of willows.” 

“There are but two horses,” said Quentin, who saw them 
in the moonlight. 

“All that I could procure without exciting suspicion, and 
enough, besides,” replied the Bohemian. “-You two must ride 
for Tongres ere the way becomes unsafe; Marthon will abide 
with the women of our horde, with whom she is an old 
acquaintance. Know, she is a daughter of our tribe, and only 
dwelt among you to serve our purpose as occasion should fall.” 

“Marthon!” exclaimed the countess, looking at the veiled 
female with a shriek of surprise; “is not this my kinswoman?” 

“Only Marthon,” said Hayraddin. “Excuse me that little 
piece of deceit. I dared not carry off both the Ladies of Croye 
from the Wild Boar of Ardennes.” 

“Wretch!” said Quentin, emphatically; “but it is not—• 
shall not—be too late: I will back to rescue the Lady 
Hameline.” ^ 

“Hameline,” whispered the ladyi^in a disturbed voice, 
“hangs on thy arm to thank thee for her rescue.” 

“Ha! what! How is this?” said Quentin, extricating 
himself from her hold, and with less gentleness than he would 


311 


/ 

Quentin Durward 

at any other time have used towards a female of any rank. 
“Is the Lady Isabelle then left behind? Farewell—farewell.” 

As he turned to hasten back to the castle, Hayraddin laid 
hold of him. “Nay, hear you—hear you—you run upon your 
death! What the foul fiend did you wear the colours of the 
old one for? I will never trust blue and white silk again. 
But she has almost as large a dower—has jewels and gold— 
hath pretentions, too, upon the earldom.” 

While he spoke thus, panting on in broken sentences, the 
Bohemian struggled to detain Quentin, who at length laid his 
hand on his dagger, in order to extricate himself. 

“Nay, if that be the case,” said Hayraddin, unloosing, his 
hold, “go,, and the devil, if there be one, go along with you!” 
And, soon as freed from his hold, the Scot shot back to the 
castle with the speed of the wind. 

Hayraddin then turned round to the Countess Hameline, 
who had sunk down on the ground, between shame, fear, and 
disappointment. 

“Here has been a mistake,” he said. “Up, lady, and come 
with me; I will provide you, ere morning comes, a gallanter 
husband than this smock-faced boy; and if one will not serve, 
you shall have twenty.” 

The Lady Hameline was as violent in her passions as she 
was vain and weak in her understanding. Like many other 
persons, she went tolerably well through the ordinary duties 
of life; but in a crisis like the present, she was entirely incap¬ 
able of doing aught, save pouring forth unavailing lamenta¬ 
tions, and accusing Hayraddin of being a thief, a base slave, 
an impostor, a murderer. 

“Call me Zingaro,” returned he, composedly, “and you 
have said all at once.” 

“Monster! you said the stars had decreed our union, 
and caused me to write—O wretch that I was!” exclaimed 

the unhappy lady. ^ 

“And so they had decreed your union, said Hayraddin, 
'‘had both parties been willing; but think you the blessed 




312 


Quentin Durward 

constellations can make any one wed against his will ? I was 
led into error with your accursed Christian gallantries, and 
fopperies of ribbons and favours, and the youth prefers veal to 
beef, I think, that’s all. Up and follow me; and take notice, 
I endure neither weeping nor swooning.” 

“I will not stir a foot,” said the countess, obstinateh'. 

“By the bright welkin, but you shall, though!” exclaimed 
Hayraddin. “I swear to you, by all that ever fools believed 
in, that you have to do with one who would care little to strip 
you naked, bind you to a tree, and leave you to your fortune!” 

“Nay,” said Marthon, interfering, “by your favour she 
'shall not be misused. I wear a knife as well as you, and can 
use it. She is a kind woman, though a fool. And you, 
madam, rise up and follow us. Here has been a mistake; but 
it is something to have saved life and limb. There are many 
in yonder castle would give all the wealth in the world to 
stand where we do now.” 

As Marthon spoke, a clamour, in which the shouts of 
victory were mingled with screams of terror and despair, was 
wafted to them from the castle of Schonwaldt. 

“Hear that, lady!” said Hayraddin, “and be thankful you 
are not adding your treble pipe to yonder concert. Believe 
me, I will care for you honestly, and the stars shall keep their 
words, and find you a good husband.” 

Like some wild animal, exhausted and subdued by terror 
and fatigue, the Countess Hameline yielded herself up to the 
conduct of her guides, and suffered herself to be passively led 
whichever way they would. Nay, such was the confusion of 
her spirits and the exhaustion of her strength, that the worthy 
couple who half bore, half led her, carried on their discourse 
in her presence without her even understanding it. 

“I ever thought your plan was folly,” said Marthon. 
“Could you have brought the young people together, indeed, 
we might have had a hold on their gratitude, and a footing in 
their castle. But what chance of so handsome a youth wed¬ 
ding this old fool ?” 


Quentin Durward 313 

“Rizpah,” said Hayraddin, “you have borne the name-«f a 
Christian, and dwelt in the tents of those besotted people, till 
thou hast become a partaker in their follies. How could I 
dream that he would have made scruples about a few years, 
youth or age, when the advantages of the match were so 
evident? And thou knowest, there would have been no 
moving yonder coy wench to be so frank as this coming 
countess here, who hangs on our arms as dead a weight as a 
wool-pack. I loved the lad too, and would have done him a 
kindness: to wed him to this old woman was to make his 
fortune; to unite him to Isabelle were to have brought on him 
De la Marck, Burgundy, France—every one that challenges 
an interest in disposing of her hand. And this silly woman’s 
wealth, being chiefly in gold and jewels, we should have had 
our share. But the bow-string has burst and the arrow failed. 
Away with her; we will bring her to William with the 
Beard. By the time he has gorged himself with wassail, as is 
his wont, he will not know an old countess from a young one. 
Away Rizpah; bear a gallant heart. The bright Aldebaran 
still influences the destinies of the Children of the Desert!” 




CHAPTER XXL 


THE SACK 

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, 

And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart. 

In liberty of bloody hand shall range. 

With conscience wide as hell. 

Henry V. 

The surprised and affrighted garrison of the castle of 
Schonwaldt had, nevertheless, for some time, made good the 
defence against the assailants; but the immense crowds which, 
issuing from the city of Liege, thronged to the assault like 
bees, distracted their attention and abated their courage. 

There was also disaffection at least, if not treachery, 
among the defenders; for some called out to surrender, and 
others, deserting their posts, tried to escape from the castle. 
Many threw themselves from the walls into the moat, and 
such as escaped drowning flung aside their distinguishing 
badges, and saved themselves by mingling among the motley 
crowd of assailants. Some few, indeed, from attachment to 
the bishop’s person, drew around him, and continued to defend 
the great keep, to which he had fled; and others, doubtful of 
receiving quarter, or from an impulse of desperate courage,, 
held out other detached bulwarks and towers of the extensive 
building- But the assailants had got possession of the courts and 
lower parts of the edifice, and were busy pursuing the van¬ 
quished and searching for spoil, while one individual, as if he 
sought for that death from which all others were flying, 
endeavoured to force his way into the scene of tumult and 
horror, under apprehensions still more horrible to his imagina¬ 
tion than the realities around were to his sight and senses. 
Whoever had seen Quentin Durward that fatal night, not 


3X4 


(JUENTIN JJURWARD 


313 


knowing the meaning of his conduct, had accounted him a 
raging madman; whoever had appreciated his motives had 
ranked him nothing beneath a hero of romance. 

Approaching Schonwaldt on the same side from which he 
had left it, the 5^outh met several fugitives making for the 
wood, who naturally avoided him as an enemy, because he came 
in an opposite direction from that which they had adopted. 
When he came nearer, he could hear, and partly see, men 
dropping from the garden-wall into the castle fosse, and 
others who seemed precipitated from the battlements by the 
assailants. His courage was not staggered, even for an instant. 
There was not time to look for the boat, even had it been prac¬ 
ticable to use it, and it was in vain to approach the postern of 
the garden, which was crowded with fugitives, who ever and 
anon, as they were thrust through it by the pressure behind, 
fell into the moat which they had no means of crossing. 

Avoiding that point, Quentin threw himself into the moat, 
near what was called the little gate of the castle, and where 
there was a drawbridge, which was still elevated. He avoided 
with difficulty the fatal grasp of more than one sinking 
wretch, and swimming to the drawbridge, caught hold of one 
of the chains which was hanging down, and, by a great exer¬ 
tion of strength and activity, swayed himself out of the water, 
and attained the platform from which the bridge was sus¬ 
pended. As with hands and knees he struggled to make good 
his footing, a lanzknecht, with his bloody sword in his hand, 
made towards him, and raised his weapon for a blow, which 
must have been fatal. 

“How now, fellow!” said Quentin, in a tone of authority. 
“Is that the way in which 5^ou assist a comrade? Give me 
your hand.” 

The soldier in silence, and not without hesitation, reached 
him his arm, and helped him upon the platform, when with¬ 
out allowing him time for reflection, the Scot continued in the 
same tone of command—“To the western tower, if you would 
be rich: the priest’s treasury is in the western tower.” 



316 


Quentin Durward 

These words were echoed on every hand: “To the western 
tower, the treasure is in the western tower!“ And the strag¬ 
glers who were within hearing the cry, took, like a herd of 
raging wolves, the direction opposite to that which Quentin, 
come life, come death, was determined to pursue. 

Bearing himself as if he were one, not of the conquered, 
but of the victors, he made a way into the garden, and pushed 
across it, with less interruption than he could have expected; 
for the cry of “To the western tower!” had carried off one 
body of the assailants,, and another was summoned together, 
by war-cry and trumpet-sound, to assist in repelling a des¬ 
perate sally, attempted by the defenders of the keep, who had 
hoped to cut their way out of the castle, bearing the bishop 
along with them. Quentin, therefore, crossed the garden with 
an eager step and throbbing heart, commending himself to 
those Heavenly powers which had protected him through the 
numberless perils of his life, and bold in his determination to 
succeed, or leave his life in this desperate undertaking. Ere 
he reached the garden, three men rushed on him with levelled 
lances, crying, “Liege—Liege!” 

Putting himself in defence, but without striking, he 
replied, “France—France, friend to Liege!” 

”Vwat Francer cried the burghers of Liege, and passed 
on. The same signal proved a talisman to avert the weapons 
of four or five of La March’s followers, whom he found 
straggling in the garden,, and who set upon him, crying, 
“Sanglier!” 

In a word, Quentin began to hope that his character as an 
emissary of King Louis, the private instigator of the insurgents 
of Liege, and the secret supporter of William de la March, 
might possibly bear him through the horrors of the night. 

On reaching the turret, he shuddered when he found the 
little side-door, through which Marthon and the Countess 
Hameline had shortly before joined him, was now blockaded 
with more than one dead body. 

Two of them he dragged hastily aside, and was stepping 


Quentin Durward 


317 


over the third body, in order to enter the portal, when the 
supposed dead man laid hand on his cloak, and entreated him 
to stay and assist him to rise. Quentin was about to use 
rougher methods than struggling to rid himself of this 
untimely obstruction, when the fallen man continued to 
exclaim, “I am stifled here, in mine own armour! I am the 
Syndic Pavilion of Li-ege! If you are for us, I will enrich 
yoy—if you are for the other side, I will protect you; but do 
not—do not leave me to die the death of a smothered pig!” 

In the midst of this scene of blood and confusion, the 
presence of mind of Quentin suggested to him, that this digni¬ 
tary might have the means of protecting their retreat. He 
raised him on his feet, and asked him if he was wounded. 

“Not wounded—at least I think not,” answered the 
burgher; “but much out of wind.” 

“Sit down then on this stone, and recover your breath,” 
said Quentin; “I will return instantly.” 

“For wFom are you?” said the burgher, still detaining 
him. 

“For France—for France,” answered Quentin, studying 
to get away. 

“What! my lively young archer?” said the worthy syndic. 
“Nay, if it has been my fate to find a friend in this fearful 
night, I will not quit him, I promise you. Go where you will, 
I follow; and could I get some of the tight lads of our 
gulldry together, I might be able to help you in turn; but they 
are all squandered abroad like so many pease. Oh, it is a 
fearful night!” 

During this time, he was dragging himself on after Quen¬ 
tin, who, aware of the importance of securing the countenance 
of a person of such influence, slackened'his-pace to assist him, 
although cursing in his heart the encumbrance that retarded 
him. 

At the top of the stair was an ante-room, with boxes and 
tiunks, which bore marks of having been rifled, as some of the 
contents lay on the floor. A lamp, dying in the chimney, shed 




318 Quentin Durward 

a feeble beam on a dead or senseless man, who lay across the 

hearth. ^ ^ 

Bounding from Pavilion, like a greyhound from his keeper’s 
leash, and with an eflfort which almost overthrew him, Quen¬ 
tin sprung through a second and a third room, the last of 
which seemed to be the bedroom of the Ladies of Croye. No 
living mortal was to be seen in either of them. He called 
upon the Lady Isabelle’s name, at first gently, then more 
loudly, and then with an accent of despairing emphasis; but 
no answer was returned. He wrung his hands, tore his hair,, 
and stamped on the earth with desperation. At length a 
feeble glimmer of light which shone through a crevice in the 
wainscoting of a dark nook in the bedroom, announced some 
recess or concealment behind the arras. Quentin hasted to 
examine it. He found there was indeed a concealed door, but 
it resisted his hurried efforts to open it. Heedless of the per¬ 
sonal injury he might sustain, he rushed at the door with his 
whole force and weight of his body; and such was the impetus 
of an effort made betwixt hope and despair, that it would have 
burst much stronger fastenings. 

He thus forced his way, almost headlong into a small 
oratory, where a female figure, which had been kneeling in 
agonising supplication before the holy image, now sunk at 
length on the floor, under the new terrors implied in this 
approaching tumult. He hastily raised her from the ground, 
and, joy of joys! it was she whom he sought to save—the 
Countess Isabelle. He pressed her to his bosom—he conjured 
her to awake—entreated her to be of good cheer—for that she 
was now under the protection of one w’ho had heart and hand 
enough to defend her against armies. 

“Durward!” she said, as she at length collected herself, “is 
it indeed you? Then there is some hope left. I thought all 
living and mortal friends had left me to my fate. Do not 
again abandon me.” 

“Never—never!” said Durward. “Whatever shall hap¬ 
pen—whatever danger shall approach, may I forfeit the 


319 


Quentin Durward 

benefits purchased by yonder blessed sign, if I be not the 
sharer of your fate until it is again a happy one!” 

Very pathetic and touching, truly,” said a rough, broken, 
asthmatic voice behind. “A love affair, I see; and, from 
my soul, I pity the tender creature, as if she were my own 
Trudchen.” 

“You must do more than pity us,” said Quentin, turning 
towards the'speaker; “you must assist in protecting us, Mein- 
herr Pavilion. Be assured this lady was put under my 
especial charge by your ally the King of France; and, if you 
aid me not to shelter her from every species of offence and 
violence, your city will lose the favour of Louis of Valois. 
Above all, she must be guarded from the hands of William de 
la Marck.” 

“That will be difficult,” said Pavilion, “for these schelms 
of lanzknechts are very devils at rummaging out the wenches ; 
but I’ll do my best. We will to the other apartment, and 
there I will consider. It is but a narrow stair, and you can 
keep the door with a pike, while I look from the window, and 
get together some of my brisk boys of the curriers’ guildry of 
Liege, that are as true as the knives they wear in their girdles. 
But first undo me these clasps; for I have not worn this 
corslet since the battle of St. Tron,^ and I am three stone ^ 
heavier since that time, if there be truth in Dutch beam and 
scale.” 

The undoing of the iron Enclosure gave great relief to the 
honest man, who, in putting it on, had more considered his 
zeal to the cause of Liege than his capacity of bearing arms. 
It afterwards turned out that, being, as it were, borne for¬ 
ward involuntarily, and hoisted over the walls by his company 
as they thronged to the assault, the magistrate had been 
carried here and there, as the tide of attack and defence flowed 

Tron. Fought by the insurgents of Liege against the Duke of Burgundy, 
Charles the Bold, when Count of Charolais, in which the poeple of Liege were 
defeated with great slaughter.— ScoU. 

^Stone. A common measure of weight in Great Britain ; about fourteen 
pounds. ' 




320 Quentin Durward 

or ebbed, without the power, latterly, of even uttering a w^ord ; 
until, as the sea casts a log of driftwood ashore in the first 
creek, he had been ultimately thrown down in the entrance to 
the Ladies of Croye’s apartments, where the encumbrance of 
his own armour, with the superincumbent weight of two men 
slain in the entrance, and who fell above him, might have 
fixed him down long enough, had he not been relieved by 
Durward. 

The same warmth of temper, which rendered Hermann 
Pavilion a hot-headed and intemperate zealot in politics, had 
the more desirable consequence of making him, in private, a 
good-tempered, kind-hearted man, who, if sometimes a little 
misled by vanity, was always well-meaning and benevolent. 
He told Quentin to have an especial care of the poor pretty 
yungfrau;^ and, after this unnecessary exhortation, began to 
halloo from the window, “Liege—Liege, for the gallant skin¬ 
ners’ guild of curriers!” 

One or two of his immediate followers collected at the 
summons and at the peculiar whistle with which it was 
accompanied (each of the crafts having such a signal among 
themselves), and, more joining them, established a guard 
under the window from which their leader was bawling, and 
before the postern-door. 

Matters seemed now settling into some sort of tranquillity. 
All opposition had ceased, and the leaders of the different 
classes of assailants were taking measures to prevent indis¬ 
criminate plunder. The great bell was tolled, as summons to 
a military council, and its iron tongue, communicating to 
Liege the triumphant possession of Schonwaldt by the insur¬ 
gents, was answered by all the bells in that city, whose distant 
and clamorous voices seemed to cry, “Hail to the victors!” It 
would have been natural, that Meinherr Pavilion should now 
have sallied from his fastness; but, either in reverent care of 
those whom he had taken under his protection, or perhaps for 
the better assurance of his own safety, he contented himself 

^Yungfrau. German Jungfrau\ a girl, an unmarried woman. 


321 


Quentin Durward 

witli despatching messenger on messenger, to command his 
lieutenant, Peterkin Geislaer, to attend him directly. 

Peterkin came at length, to his great relief, as being the 
person upon whom, on all pressing occasions, whether of war, 
politics, or commerce. Pavilion was most accustomed to repose 
confidence. He was a stout, squat figure, with a square face 
and broad black eyebrows, that announced him to be opinion- 
ative and disputatious.,—an advice-giving countenance, so to 
speak. He was endued with a buff jerkin, wore a broad belt 
and cutlass by his side, and carried a halberd in his hand. 

“Peterkin, my dear lieutenant,” said his commander, “this 
has been a glorious day—night, I should say; I trust thou art 
pleased for once?” 

“I am well enough pleased that you are so,” said the 
doughty lieutenant; “though I should not have thought of 
your celebrating the victory, if you call it one, up in this 
garret by yourself, when you are wanted in council.” 

“But am I wanted there?” said the syndic. 

“Ay, marry are you, to stand up for the rights of Liege, 
that are in more danger than ever,” answered the lieutenant. 

“Pshaw, Peterkin,” answered his principal, “thou art ever 
such a frampold ^ grumbler-” 

“Grumbler! not I,” said Peterkin; “what pleases other 
people will always please me. Only I wish we have not got 
King Stork, instead of King Log, like the fabliau that the 
clerk of St. Lambert’s used to read us out of Meister /Psop’s 
book.”" 

“I cannot guess your meaning, Peterkin,” said the syndic. 

“Why then, I tell you. Master Pavilion, that this Boar, or 
Bear, is like to make his own den of Schonwaldt, and ’tis 
probable to turn out as bad a neighbour to our town as ever 
was the old bishop and worse. Here he has taken the whole 
conquest in his own hand, and is only doubting whether he 


^Frampold. Peevish. 

^Aesop’s book. Aesop's Fables. 





322 


Quentin Durward 

should be called prince or bishop; and it is a shame to see how 
they have mishandled the old man among them.” 

“I will not permit it, Peterkin,” said Pavilion, bustling 
up; “I disliked the mitre, but not the head that wore it. We 
are ten to one in the field, Peterkin, and will not permit these 
courses.” 

“Ay, ten to one in the field, but only man to man in the 
castle; besides that Nikkei Blok, the butcher, and all the 
rabble of the suburbs, take part with William de la Marck, 
partly for saus and braus} for he had broached all the ale-tubs 
and wine-casks, and partly for old envy towards us, who are 
the craftsmen, and have privileges.” 

“Peter,” said Pavilion, “we will go presently to the city. 
I will stay no longer in Schonwaldt.” 

“But the bridges of this castle are up, master,” said 
Geislaer; “the gates locked and guarded by these lanzknechts; 
and, if we were to try to force our way, these fellows, whose 
- every-day business is war, might make wild work of us, that 
only fight of a holyday.” 

“But why has he secured the gates?” said the alarmed 
burgher; “or what business hath he to make honest men 
prisoners ?” 

“I cannot tell—not I,” said Peter. “Some noise there is 
about the Ladies of Croye, who have escaped during the storm 
of the castle. That first put the Man with the Beard beside 
himself with anger, and now he’s beside himself with drink 
al§o.” 

The burgomaster cast a disconsolate look towards Quen¬ 
tin, and seemed at a loss what to resolve upon. Durward, who 
had not lost a word of the conversation, which alarmed him 
very much, saw nevertheless that their only safety depended 
on his preserving his own presence of mind, and sustaining the 
courage of Pavilion. He struck boldly into the conversation, 
as one who had a right to have a voice in the deliberation. “I 
am ashamed,” he said, “Meinherr Pavilion, to observe you 


and braus. Riot and r'^vel. 


323 


Quentin Durward 

hesitate what to do on this occasion. Go boldly to William 
de la Marck, and demand free leave to quit the castle, you, 
your lieutenant, your squire, and your daughter. He can haVe 
no pretence for keeping you prisoner.” 

“For me and my lieutenant—that is myself and Peter- 
good ; but who is my squire ?” 

|‘I am for the present,” replied the undaunted Scot. 

“You!” said the embarrassed burgess; “but are you not 
the envoy of King Louis of France?” 

“True, but my message is to the magistrates of Liege, and 
only in Liege will I deliver it. Were I to acknowledge my 
quality before William de la Marck, must I not enter into 
negotiations with him—ay, and, it is like,, be detained by him? 
You n^ust get me secretly out of the castle in the capacity of 
your squire.” 

“Good—my squire. But you spoke of my daughter; my 
daughter is, I trust, safe in my house in Liege—where I wish 
her father was, with all my heart and soul.” 

“This lady,” said Durward, “will call you father while 
w’e are in this place.” 

“And for my whole life afterwards,” said the countess, 
throwing herself at the citizen’s feet and clasping his knees! 

“Never shall the day pass in which I will not honour you, love 
you, and pray for you as a daughter for a father, if you will 
but aid me in this fearful strait. O be not hard-hearted! 
think your own daughter may kneel to a stranger, to ask him 
for life and honour—think of this, and give me the protection 
you would wish her to receive!” 

“In troth,” said the good-citizen, much moved with her 
pathetic appeal, “I thipk, Peter, that this pretty maiden hath 
a touch of our Trudchen’s sweet look,,—I thought so from the 
first; and that this brisk youth here, who is so ready with his 
advice, is somewhat like Trudchen’s bachelor. I wager a 
groat, ^eter, that this is a true-love matter, and it is a sin not 
to further it.” 

“It were shame and sin both,” said Peter, a good-natured 




324 


Quentin Durward 

Fleming, notwithstanding all his self-conceit; and as he spoke ; 
he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jerkin. 

“She shall be my daughter,” then,” said Pavilion, “well , 
wrapped up in her black silk veil; and if there are not enough i 
of true-hearted skinners to protect her, being the daughter of ^ 
their syndic, it were pity they should ever tug leather more. 
But hark ye, questions must be answered. How if I am asked \ 
what should my daughter make here at such an onslaught?” 

“What should half the women in Liege make here when 
they followed us to the castle?” said Peter; “they had no 
other reason, sure, but that it was just the place in the world 
tliat they should not have come to. Our yungfrau Xrudchen 
has come a little farther than the rest, that is all.” 

“Admirably spoken,” said Quentin; “only be bold, and 
take this gentleman’s good counsel, noble Meinherr PaviUon, 
and, at no trouble to yourself, you will do the most worthy 
action since the days of Charlemagne. Here, sw^eet lady, 
wrap yourself close in this veil,” for many articles of female 
apparel lay scattered about the apartment; “be but confident, 
and a few minutes will place you in freedom and safetj^ 
Noble sir,” he added, addressing Pavilion, “set forward.” 

“Hold—hold—hold a minute,” said Pavilion, “my mind 
misgives me! This De la Marck is a fury—a perfect boar in 
his nature as in his name; what if the young lady be one of 
those of Croye? and what if he discover her, and be addicted 
to wrath ?” 

“And if I were one of those unfortunate women,” said 
Isabelle, again attempting to throw herself at his feet, “could 
you for that reject me in this moment of despair? Oh, that I 
had been indeed your daughter, or the daughter of the poorest 
burgher!” 

“Not so poor—^not so poor neither, young lady; we pay 
as we go,” said the citizen. 

“Forgive me, noble sir,” again began the unfortunate 
maiden. 

“Not noble,'nor sir neither,” said the syndic; “a plain 


325 


Quentin Durward 

burgher of Liege, that pays bills of exchange in ready guilders. 
But that is nothing to the purpose. Well, say you be a 
countess, I will protect you nevertheless.” 

“You are bound to protect her were she a duchess,” said 
Peter, “having once passed your word.” 

“Right, Peter, very right,” said the syndic; “it is our old 
Low Dutch fashion, ein wort, ein mann;^ and now let us to 
this gear. We must take leave of this William de la Marck ; 
and 5^et I know not, my mind misgives me when I think of 
him; and were it a ceremony which could be waived, I have 
no stomach to go through it.” 

“Were you not better, since you have a force together, 
make for the gate and force the guard ?” said Quentin. 

But with united voice, Pavilion and his adviser exclaimed 
against the propriety of such an attack upon their ally’s 
soldiers, with some hints concerning its rashness., which satis¬ 
fied Quentin that it was not a risk to be hazarded with such 
associates. They resolved, therefore, to repair boldly to the 
great hall of the castle, where, as they understood, the Wild 
Boar of Ardennes held his feast, and demand free egress for 
the S5mdic of Liege and his company, a request too reasonable, 
as it seemed, to be denied. Still the good burgomaster groaned 
when he looked on his companions, and exclaimed to his faith¬ 
ful Peter. “See what it is to have too bold and too tender a 
heart! Alas! Perkin, how much have courage and humanity 
cost me! and how much may I yet have to pay for my virtues 
before Heaven makes us free of this damned castle of 
Schonwaldt!” 

As they crossed the courts, still strewed with the dying 
and dead, Quentin, while he supported Isabelle through the 
scene of horrors, whispered to her courage and comfort, and 
reminded her that her safety depended entirely on her firmness 
and presence of mind. 

“Not on mine—not on mine,” she said, “but on yours—on 
yours only. O, if I but escape this fearful night, never shall 

iEim Wort, e'.n Mann. A word, a man; a man of his word. 




326 Quentin Durward 

I forget him who saved me! One favour more only let me 
implore at your hand, and I conjure you to grant it, by your 
mother’s fame and your father’s honour!” 

“What is it you can ask that I could refuse?” said Quen¬ 
tin in a whisper. 

“Plunge your dagger in my heart,” said she, “rather than 
leave me captive in the hands of these monsters.” 

Quentin’s only answer was a pressure of the young 
countess’s hand, which seemed as if, but for terror, it would 
have returned the caress. And, leaning on her youthful pro¬ 
tector, she entered the fearful hall, preceded by Pavilion and 
his lieutenant, and followed by a dozen of the kurschenschaft 
[kurschnerschaft] or skinner’s trade, who attended as a guard 
of honour on the syndic. 

As they approached the hall, the yells of acclamation and 
burst of wild laughter, 'which proceeded from it, seemed 
rather to announce the revel of festive demons rejoicing after 
some accomplished triumph over the human race than of 
mortal beings who had succeeded in a bold design. An 
emphatic tone of mind, which despair alone could have 
inspired, supported the assumed courage of the Countess Isa¬ 
belle; undaunted spirits, which rose with the extremity, 
maintained that of Durward; while Pavilion and his lieu¬ 
tenant made a virtue of necessity, and faced their fate like 
bears bound to a stake, which must necessarily stand the 
dangers of the course. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE REVELLERS 

Cade. Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford? 

Dick. Here, sir. 

Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen; and thotr 
behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house. 

King Henry VI., Part II. 

There could hardly exist a more strange and horrible 
change than had taken place in the castle-hall of Schopwaldt 
since Quentin had partaken of the noontide meal there; and 
it was indeed one which painted, in the extremity of their 
dreadful features, the miseries of war—more especially when 
waged by those most relentless of all agents, the mercenary 
soldiers of a barbarous age—men who,, by habit and profession, 
had become familiarised with all that was cruel and bloody in 
the art of war, while they were devoid alike of patriotism and 
of the romantic spirit of chivalry. 

Instead of the orderly, decent, and somewhat formal meal, 
at which civil and ecclesiastical officers had, a few hours 
before, sat mingled in the same apartment, where a light jest 
could only be uttered in a whisper, and where, even amid 
superfluity of feasting and of wine, there reigned,a decorum 
which almost amounted to hypocrisy, there was now such a 
scene of wild and roaring debauchery as Satan himself, had he 
taken the chair as founder of the feast, could scarcely have 
improved. 

At the head of the table sat, in the bishop’s throne and 
state, which had been hastily brought thither from his great 
council-chamber, the redoubted Boar of Ardennes himself, well 
deserving that dreaded name, in which he affected to delight, 
and which he did as much as he could think of to deserve. 


327 



328 Quentin Durward 

His head was unhelmeted, but he wore the rest of his ponder¬ 
ous and bright armour, which indeed he rarely laid aside. 
Over his shoulder hung a strong surcoat, made of the dressed 
skin of a huge wild boar, the hoofs being of solid silver and 
the tusks of the same. The skin of the head was so arranged 
that, drawn over the casque when the baron was armed, or , 
over his bare head, in the fashion of a hood, as he often 
affected when the helmet was laid aside, and as he now wore 
it, the effect was that of a grinning ghastly monster; and yet 
the countenance which it overshadowed scarce required such 
horrors to improve those which w’ere natural to its ordinary 
expression. 

The upper part of De la March’s face, as nature had 
formed it, almost gave the lie to his character; for though his 
hair, when uncovered, resembled the rude and wild bristles of 
the hood he had drawn over it, yet an open, high, and manly 
forehead, broad ruddy cheeks, large, sparkling, light-coloured 
eyes, and a nose hooked like the beak of the eagle, promised 
something valiant and generous. But the effect of these more 
favourable traits was entirely overpowered by his habits of 
violence and insolence, which, joined to debauchery and intem¬ 
perance, had stamped upon the features a character incon¬ 
sistent with the rough gallantry which they would otherwise 
have exhibited. The former had, from habitual indulgence, 
swollen the muscles of the cheeks and those around the eyes, 
in particular the latter; evil practices and habits had dimmed 
the eyes themselves, reddened the part of them that should 
have been white, and given the whole face a hideous likeness 
of the monster which it was the terrible baron’s pleasure to 
resemble. But from an odd sort of contradiction, De la 
Marck, while he assumed in other respect^ the appearance of 
the wild boar, and even seemed pleased with the name, yet 
endeavoured, by the length and growth of his beard, to con¬ 
ceal the circumstance that had originally procured him that 
denomination. This was an unusual thickness and projection 
of the mouth and upper jaw, which, with the huge projecting 


Quentin Durward 329 

side teeth, gave that resemblance to the bestial creation which, 
joined to the delight which De la March had in haunting the 
forest so called. Originally procured for him the name of the 
Boar of Ardennes. The beard, broad, grisly, and uncombed, 
neither concealed the natural horrors of the countenance nor 
dignified its brutal expression. 

The soldiers and officers sat around the table, intermixed 
with the men of Liege, some of them of the very lowest 
description; among whom Nikkei Blok, the butcher, placed 
near De la March himself, was distinguished by his tucked-up 
sleeves, which displayed arms smeared to the elbows with 
blood, as was the cleaver which lay on the table before him. 
The soldiers wore, most of them, their beards long and grisly, 
in imitation of their leader; had their hair plaited and turned 
upwards, in the manner that might best improve the natural 
ferocity of their appearance; and intoxicated,, as many of them 
seemed to be, partly with the sense of triumph, and partly 
with the long libations of wine which they had been quaffing, 
presented a spectacle at once hideous and disgusting. The 
language which they held, and the songs which they sung, 
without even pretending to pay each other the compliment of 
listening, were so full of license and blasphemy, that Quentin 
blessed God that the extremity of the noise prevented them 
from being intelligible to his companion. 

It only remains to say, of the better class of burghers who 
were associated with William de la March’s soldiers in this 
fearful revel, that the wan faces and anxious mien of the 
greater part showed that they either disliked their entertain¬ 
ment or feared their companions; while some of lower educa¬ 
tion, or a nature more brutal, saw only in the excesses of the 
soldier a gallant bearing, which they would willingly Imitate, 
and the tone of which they endeavoured to catch so far as was 
possible, and stimulated themselves to the task by swallowing 
immense draughts of wine and scliwurzbicf indulging a 
vice which at all times was too common ..i the Low Countries. 


iSchwarzbier. Black beer. 



330 


Quentin Durward 

The preparations for the feast had been as disorderly as the 
quality of the company. The whole of the bishop’s plate— 
nay, even that belonging to the service of the church, for the 
Boar of Ardennes regarded not the imputation of sacrilege— 
was mingled with blackjacks, or huge tankards made of 
leather, and drinking-horns of the most ordinary description. 

One circumstance of horror remains to be added and 
accounted for; and we willingly leave the rest of the scene to 
the imagination of the reader. Amidst the wild license 
assumed by the soldiers of De la Marck, one who was 
excluded from the table—a lanzknecht, remarkable for his 
courage and for his daring behaviour during the storm of the 
evening—had impudently snatched up a large silver goblet 
and carried it off, declaring it should atone for his loss of the 
share of the feast. The leader laughed till his sides shook at a 
jest so congenial to the character of the company; but when 
another, less renowned, it would seem, for audacity in battle, 
ventured on using the same freedom, De la Marck instantly 
put a check to a jocular practice which would soon have 
cleared his table of all the more valuable decorations. “Ho! 
by the spirit of the thunder!” he exclaimed, “those who dare 
not be men when they face the enemy must not pretend to be 
thieves ariiong their friends. , What! thou frontless dastard, 
thou—thou w^ho didst wait for opened gate and lowered 
bridge, when Comrade Horst forced his way over moat and 
wall, must thou be malapert? Knit him up to the stanchions 
of the hall-window! He shall beat time with his feet wliile 
we drink a cup to his safe passage to the devil.” 

The doom .was scarce sooner pronounced than accom¬ 
plished ; and in a moment the wretch wrestled out his last 
agonies, suspended from the iron bars. His body still hung 
there when Quentin a,nd the others entered the hall, and inter¬ 
cepting the pale moonbeam, threw’ on the castle-floor an 
uncertain shadow, which dubiously, yet fearfully, intimated 
the nature of the substance that produced it. 

When the Syndic Pavilion was announced from mouth to 


3^1 


Quentin Durward 

mouth in this tumultuous meeting, he endeavoured to assume,, 
in right of his authority and influence, an air of importance 
and equality, which a glance at the fearful object at the 
window, and at the wild scene around him, rendered it very 
difficult for him to sustain, notwithstanding the exhortations 
of Peter, who whispered in his ear, with some perturbation, 
“Up heart, master, or we are but gone men!” 

The syndic maintained his dignity, however, as well as he 
could, in a short address, in which he complimented the com¬ 
pany upon the great victory gained by the soldiers of De la 
Marck and the good citizens of Liege. 

“Ay,” answered De la Marck, sarcastically, “we have 
brought down the game at last, quoth my lady’s brach to the 
wolf-hound. But ho! sir burgomaster, you come like Mars, 
with beauty by your side. Who is this fair one? Unveil 
unveil; no woman calls her beauty her own tonight.” 

“It is my daughter, noble leader,” answered Pavilion; 
“and I am to pray your forgiveness for her wearing a veil. 
She has a vow for that effect to the Three Blessed Kings.’ 

“I wdll absolve her of it presently,” said De la Marck; 
“for here, with one stroke of a cleaver, will I consecrate 
myself Bishop of Liege; and I trust one living bishop is 
worth three dead kings.” 

There was a shuddering and murmur among the guests; 
for the community of Liege, and even some of the rude 
soldiers, reverenced the Kings of Cologne, as they were com¬ 
monly called, though they respected nothing else. 

“Nay, I mean no treason against their defunct majesties,,” 
said De la Marck; “only bishop I am determined to be. A 
prince both secular and ecclesiastical, having power to bind 
and loose, will best suit a band of reprobates such as you, to 
whom no one else would give absolution. But come hither, 
noble burgomaster, sit beside me, when you shall see me make 
a vacancy for my own preferment. -Bring in our predecessor 
in the holy seat.” 

A bustle took place in the hall, while Pavilion, excusing 






332 


Quentin Durward 

himself from the proffered seat of honour, placed himself near 
the bottom of the table, his followers keeping close behind 
him, not unlike a flock of sheep which, when a stranger dog is 
in presence, may be sometimes seen to assemble in the rear of 
an old bell-wether, who is, from office and authority, judged 
by them to have rather more courage than themselves. Near 
the spot sat a very handsome lad, a natural son, as was said, of 
the ferocious De la Marck, and towards whom he sometimes 
showed affection, and even tenderness. The mother of the 
boy, a beautiful concubine, had perished by a blow dealt her 
by the ferocious leader in a fit of drunkenness or jealousy; and 
her fate had caused her tyrant as much remorse as he was 
capable of feeling. His attachment to the surviving orphan 
might be partly owing to these circumstances. Quentin, who 
had learned this point of the leader s character from the old 
priest, planted himself as close as he could to the youth in 
question; determined to make him, in some way or other, 
either a hostage or a protector, should other means of safety 
fail them. 

While all stood in a kind of suspense, waiting the event of 
the orders which the tyrant had issued, one of Pavilion’s fol¬ 
lowers whispered to Peter, “Did not our master call that 
wench his daughter? Why, it cannot be our Trudchen. This 
strapping lass is taller by two inches; and there is a black lock 
of hair peeps forth yonder from under her veil. By St. 
Michael of the market-place, you might as well call a black 
bullock’s hide a white heifer’s!” 

“Hush! hush!” said Peter, with some presence of mind. 
“What if our master hath a mind to steal a piece of doe- 
venison out of the bishop’s park here without our good dame’s 
knowledge? And is it for thee or me to be a spy on him?” 

“That will not I, brother,” answered the other, “though I 
would not have thought of his turning deer-stealer at his 
years. Sapperment —what a shy fairy it is! See how she 
crouches down on yonder seat, behind folk’s backs, to escape the 


Quentin Durward 333 

gaze of the Marchers. But hold—hold ; what are they about 
to do with the poor old bishop ?” 

As he spoke, the Bishop of Liege, Louis of Bourbon, was 
dragged into the hall of his own palace by the brutal soldiery. 
The dishevelled state of his hair, beard, and attire bore wit¬ 
ness to the ill treatment he had already received; and some 
of his sacerdotal robes, hastily flung over him, appeared to 
have been put on in scorn and ridicule of his quality and 
character. By good fortune, as Quentin was compelled to 
think it, the Countess Isabelle, whose feelings at seeing her 
protector in such an extremity might have betrayed her own 
secret and compromised her safety, was so situated as neither 
to hear nor see what was about to take place; and Durward 
sedulously interposed his own person before her, so as to keep 
her from observing alike, and from observation. 

The scene which followed was short and fearful. When 
the unhappy prelate was brought before the footstool of the 
savage leader, although in former life only remarkable for his 
easy and good-natured temper, he showed in this extremity a 
sense of his dignity and noble blood, well becoming the high 
race from which he was descended. His look was composed 
and undismayed; his gesture, when the rude hands which 
dragged him forward were unloosed,, was noble, and at the 
same time resigned, somewhat between the bearing of a feudal 
noble and of a Christian martyr; and so much was even De la 
Marck himself staggered by the firm demeanour of his pris¬ 
oner, and recollection of the early benefits he had received 
from him, that he seemed irresolute, cast down his eyes, and 
it was not until he had emptied a large goblet of wine, that, 
resuming his haughty insolence of look and manner, he thus 
addressed his unfortunate captive:—“Louis of Bourbon, said 
the truculent soldier, drawing hard his breath, clenching his 
hands, setting his teeth, and using the other mechanical 
actions to rouse up and sustain his native ferocity of temper, 
“I sought your friendship, and you rejected mine. What 



334 Quentin Durward 

would you now give that it had been otherwise? Nikkei, be 
ready.” 

The butcher rose,, seized his weapon, and stealing round 
behind De la March’s chair, stood with it uplifted in his bare 
and sinewy arms. 

“Look at that man, Louis of Bourbon,” said De la March 
again; “what terms wilt thou now offer to escape this dan¬ 
gerous hour?” 

The bishop cast a melancholy but unshaken look upon the 
grisly satellite, who seemed prepared to execute the will of the 
tyrant, and then he said with firmness, “Hear me, William 
de la March; and good men all, if there be any here who 
deserve that name, hear the only terms I can offer to this ruffian. 
William de la March, thou hast stirred up to sedition an 
imperial city, hast assaulted and taken the palace of a prince of 
the Holy German Empire, slain his people, plundered his 
goods, maltreated his person; for this thou art liable to the 
ban of the Empire—hast deserved to be declared outlawed 
and fugitive, landless and rightless. Thou hast done more 
than all this. More than mere human laws hast thou broken, 
more than mere human vengeance hkst thou deserved. Thou 
hast broken into the sanctuary of the Lord, laid violent hands 
upon a father of the church, defiled the house of God with 
blood and rapine, like a sacrilegious robber-” 

“^Hast thou 3Tt done?” said De la Marck, fiercely inter¬ 
rupting him, and stamping with his foot. 

“No,” answ^ered the prelate, “for I have not yet told thee 
the terms which you demanded to hear from me.” 

“Go on,” said De la Marck; “and let the terms please me 
better than the preface, or woe to thy grey head!” And fling¬ 
ing himself back in his seat, he grinded his teeth till the foam 
flew from his lips, as from the tusks of the savage animal 
whose name and spoils he wore. 

“Such are thy crimes,” resumed the bishop, with calm 
determination; “now hear the terms which, as a merciful 
prince and a Christian prelate,’ setting aside all personal 



335 


Quentin Durward 

offence, forgiving each peculiar injury, I condescend to offer. 
Fling down thy leading-staff, renounce thy command, unbind 
thy prisoners, restore thy spoil, distribute what else thou hast 
of goods to relieve those whom thou hast made orphans and 
widows, array thyself in sackcloth and ashes, take a palmer’s 
staff in thy hand,, and go barefooted on pilgrimage to Rome, 
and we will ourselves be intercessors for thee with the 
Imperial Chamber at Ratisbon for thy life, with our Holy 
Father the Pope for thy miserable soul.” 

While Louis of Bourbon proposed these terms in a tone 
as decided as if he still occupied his episcopal throne, and as if 
the usurper kneeled a suppliant at his feet, the tyrant slowly 
raised himself in his chair, the amazement with which he was 
at first filled giving away gradually to rage, until, as the 
bishop ceased, he looked to Nikkei Blok, and raised his finger, 
without speaking a word. The ruffian struck, as if he had 
been doing his office in the common shambles, and the mur¬ 
dered bishop^ sunk, without a groan, at the foot of his own 
episcopal throne. The Liegeois, who were not prepared for 
so horrible a catastrophe, and who had expected to hear the 
conference end in some terms of accommodation, started up 
unanimously, with cries of execration, mingled with shouts of 
vengeance. 

But William de la Marck, raising his tremendous voice 
above the tumult, and shaking his clenched hand and extended 
arm, shouted aloud, “How now, ye porkers of Liege! ye wal- 
lowers in the mud of the Maes! do ye dare to mate yourselves 
with the Wild Boar of Ardennes? Up, ye boar’s brood!” (an 
expression by which he himself and others often designated 
his soldiers), “let these Flemish hogs see your tusks!” 

Every one of his followers started up at the command, and 
mingled as they were among their late allies, prepared, too, 
for such a surprisal, each had, in an instant, his next neigh¬ 
bour by the collar, while his right hand brandished a broad 

iThe Murdered Bishop. See Note 19 at end of the novel. 


336 Quentin Durward 

dagger that glimmered against lamplight and moonshine. 
Every arm was uplifted, but no one struck; for the victims 
were too much surprised for resistance, and it was probably 
the object of De la Marck only to impose terror on his civic 
confederates. 

But the courage of Quentin Durward, prompt and alert 
in resolution beyond his years, and stimulated at the moment 
by all that could add energy to his natural shrewdness and 
resolution, gave a new turn to the scene. Imitating the action 
of the followers of De la Marck, he sprung on Carl Eberson, 
the son of their leader, and mastering him with ease, held his 
dirk at the boy’s throat, while he exclaimed, “Is that your 
game? then here I play my part.” 

“Hold! hold!” exclaimed De la Marck, “it is a jest—a 
jest. Think you I would injure my good friends and allies 
of the city of Liege? Soldiers, unloose your holds; sit down ; 
take away the carrion (giving the bishop’s corpse a thrust with 
his foot), which hath caused this strife among friends, and let 
us drown unkindness in a fresh carouse.” 

All unloosened their holds, and the citizens and soldiers 
stood gazing on each other, as if they scarce knew whether 
they were friends or foes. 

Quentin Durward took advantage of the moment. “Hear 
me,” he said, “William de la Marck, and you, burghers and 
citizens of Liege; and do you, young sir, stand still,” for the 
boy Carl was attempting to escape* from his gripe, “no harm 
shall befall you, unless another of these sharp jests shall pass 
round.” 

“Who art thou, in the fiend’s name,” said the astonished 
De la Marck, “who art come to hold terms and take hostages 
from us in our own lair—from us, who exact pledges from 
others, but yield them to no one?” 

“I am a servant of King Louis of France,” said Quentin 
boldly; “an archer of the Scottish Guard, as my language and 
dress may partly tell you. I am here to behold and to report 
your proceedings; and I see with wonder that they are those 



337 


Quentin Durward 

of heathens rather than Christians—of madmen rather than 
men possessed of reason. The hosts of Charles of Burgundy 
will be instantly in motion against you all; and if you wish 
assistance from France, you must conduct yourselves in a 
different manner. For you, men of Liege, I advise your 
instant return to your own city;, and if there is any obstruc¬ 
tion offered to your departure, I denounce those by whom it 
is so offered as foes to my master, his most gracious Majesty 
of France.” 

“France and Liege! France and Liege!” cried the fol¬ 
lowers of Pavilion, and several other citizens, whose courage 
began to rise at the bold language held by Quentin. 

“France and Liege, and long live the gallant archer! We 
will live and die with him.” 

William de la March’s eyes sparkled, and he grasped his 
dagger as if about to launch it at the heart of the audacious 
speaker; but glancing his eye around, he read something in 
the looks of his soldiers, which even he was obliged to respect. 
Many of them were Frenchmen, and all of them knew the 
private support which William had received, both in men and 
in money, from that kingdom; nay, some of them were rather 
startled at the violent and sacrilegious action which had been 
just committed. The name of Charles of Burgundy, a person 
likely to resent to the utmost the deeds of that night, had an 
alarming sound, and the extreme impolicy of at once quar¬ 
relling with the Liegeois and provoking the monarch of 
France, made an appalling impression on their minds, con¬ 
fused as their intellects were. De la Marck, in short, saw he 
would not be supported, even by his own band, in any farther 
act of immediate violence, and relaxing the terrors of his brow 
and eye, declared that “he had not the least design against his 
good friends of Liege, all of whom were at liberty to depart 
from Schonwaldt at their pleasure, although he had hoped 
they would revel one night with him, at least, in honour of 
their victory.” He added, with more calmness than he com¬ 
monly used, that “he would be ready to enter into negotiation 



338 


QuEXilX Durward 

concerning the partition of spoil, and the arrangement of 
measures for their mutual defence, either the next day, or as 
soon after as they would. Meantime, he trusted that the 
Sconish gentleman would honour his feast by remaining all 
niy!it at Schonwaldt.” 

The young Scot returned his thanks, but said his motions 
must be determined by those of Pavilion, to whom he was 
directed particularly to attach himself; but that,, unquestion¬ 
ably, he would attend him on his next return to the quarters 
of the valiant William de la March. 

“If you depend on my motions,” said Pavilion, hastily and 
aloud, “you are likely to quit Schonwaldt without an Instant’s 
delay; and, if you do not come back to Schonwaldt, save in 
my company, you.are not likely to see it again In a hurry.” 

This last part of the sentence the honest citizen muttered 
to himself, afraid of the consequences of giving audible vent 
to feelings which, nevertheless, he was unable altogether to 
suppress. 

“Keep close about me, my brisk kiirschner lads/' he said to 
his body-guard, “and we will get as fast as we can out of this 
den of thieves.” 

Most of the better classes of the Llegeols seemed to enter¬ 
tain similar opinions with the syndic, and there had been 
scarce so much joy amongst them at the obtaining possession 
of Schonwaldt, as now seemed to arise from the prospect of 
getting safe out of It. They were suffered to leave the castle 
without opposition of any kind; and glad was Quentin when 
he turned his back on those formidable walls. 

For the first time since they had entered that dreadful 
hall, Quentin ventured to ask the young countess how she did. 

“Well—well,” she answered, in feverish haste, “excel¬ 
lently well; do not stop to ask a question; let us not lose an 
instant In words. Let us fly—let us fly!” 

She endeavoured to mend her pace as she spoke; but with 
so little success that she must have fallen from exhaustion had 
not Durward supported her. With the tenderness of a 


Quentin Durward 


339 


mother, when she conve^^s her infant out of danger, the young 
Scot raised his precious charge in his arms; and, while she 
encircled his neck with one arm, lost to every other thought 
save the desire of escaping, he would not have wished one 
of the risks of the night unencountered, since such had been 
the conclusion. 

The honest burgomaster was, in his turn, supported and 
dragged forward by his faithful counsellor Peter and another 
of his clerks; and thus, in breathless haste, they reached the 
banks of the river, encountering many strolling bands of citi¬ 
zens, who were eager to know the event of the siege, and the 
truth of certain rumours already afloat, that the conquerors 
had quarrelled among themselves. 

Evading their curiosity as they best could, the exertions of 
Peter and some of his companions at length procured a boat 
for the use of the company, and with it an opportunity of 
enjoying some repose, equally welcome to Isabelle, who con¬ 
tinued to lie almost motionless in the arms of her preserver, 
and to the worthy burgomaster, who, after delivering a 
broken string of thanks to Durward, whose mind was at the 
time too much occupied to answer him, began a long harangue, 
which he addressed to Peter, upon his own courage and benev¬ 
olence, and the dangers to which these virtues had exposed 
him on this and other occasions. 

“Peter—Peter,” he said, resuming the complaint of the 
preceding evening, “If I had not had a bold heart, I would 
never had stood out against paying the burghers’ twentieths,^ 
when every other living soul was willing to pay the same. Ay, 
and then a less stout heart had not seduced me into that other 
battle of St. Tron, where a Hainault man-at-arms thrust me 
Into a muddy ditch with his lance, which neither heart nor 
hand that I had could help me out of till the battle was over. 
Ay, and then, Peter, this very night my courage seduced nie, 
moreover. Into too strait a corslet, which would have been the 
death of me but for the aid of this gallant young gentleman, 

^Burghers' twentieths. A tax imposed by the overlord. 


340 


' Quentin Durward 

whose trade is fighting, whereof I wish him heartily joy. And 
then for my tenderness of heart, Peter, it has made a poor 
man of me—that is, it would have made a poor man of me if 
I had not been tolerably well to pass in this wicked world; 
and Heaven knows what trouble it is like to bring on me yet, 
with ladies, countesses, and keeping of secrets, which for aught 
I know, may cost me half my fortune, and my neck into the 
bargain!” 

Quentin could remain no longer silent, but’ assured him 
that, whatever danger or damage he should incur on the part 
of the young lady now under his protection should be thank¬ 
fully acknowledged, and, as far as was possible, repaid. 

“I thank 30 U, young master squire archer—I thank you,’ 
answered the citizen of Liege; “but who was it told you that 
I desired any repa)m'ient at 3'our hand for doing the duty of an 
honest man? I only regretted that it might cost me so and 
so; and I hope I may have leave to say so much to my lieu¬ 
tenant, without either grudging my loss or my peril.” 

' Quentin accordingly concluded that his present friend was 
one of the numerous class of benefactors to others, who take 
out their reward in grumbling, without meaning more than, 
by showing their grievances, to exalt a little the idea of the 
valuable service by which they have incurred them, and there¬ 
fore prudently remained silent, and suffered the syndic to 
maunder on to his lieutenant concerning the risk and the loss 
he had encountered by his zeal for the public good, and his 
disinterested services to individuals, until they reached liis 
own habitation. 

The truth was, that the honest citizen felt that he had lost 
a little consequence, by suffering the young stranger to take 
tlie lead at the crisis which had occurred at the castle-hall of 
Schonwaldt; and, however delighted with the effect of Dur- 
ward’s interference at the moment, it seemed to him, on 
reflection, that he had sustained a diminution of importance, for 
r-lu’ch he endeavoured to obtain compensation, by exaggerating 


Quentin Durward 


341 


the claims which he had upon the gratitude of his country 
in general, his friends in particular, and more especially still, 
on the Countess of Croye and her youthful protector. 

But w^hen the boat stopped at the bottom of his garden, 
and he had got himself assisted on shore by Peter, it seemed as 
if the touch of his own threshold had at once dissipated those 
feelings of wounded self-opinion and jealousy, and converted 
the discontented and obscured demagogue into the honest, 
kind, hospitable, and friendly host. He called loudly for 
Trudchen, who presently appeared; for fear and anxiety 
would permit few within the walls of Liege to sleep during 
that eventful night. She was charged to pay the utmost atten¬ 
tion to the care of the beautiful and half-fainting stranger; 
and admiring her personal charms, while she pitied her dis¬ 
tress, Gertrude discharged the hospitable duty with the zeal 
and affection of a sister. 

Late as it now was, and fatigued as the syndic appeared, 
Quentin, on his side, had difficulty to escape a flask of choice 
and costly wine, as old as the battle of Azlncour; and must 
have submitted to take his share, however unwilling, but for 
the appearance of the mother of the family, whom Pavilion’s 
loud summons for the keys of the cellar brought forth from 
her bedroom. She was a jolly little roundabout woman, who 
had been pretty in her time, but whose principal characteristics 
for several years had been a red and sharp nose, a shrill voice, 
and a determination that the syndic, in consideration of the 
authority which he exercised when abroad, should remain 
under the rule of due discipline at home. 

So soon as she understood the nature of the debate between 
her husband and his guest, she declared roundly, that the 
former, instead of having occasion for more wine, had got too 
much already; and, far from using, in furtherance of his 
request, any of the huge bunch of keys which hung by a silver 
chain at her waist, she turned her back on him without cere¬ 
mony, and ushered Quentin to the neat and pleasant apart- 


342 


Quentin Durward 

ment in which he was to spend the night, amid such appliances 
to rest and comfort as probably he had till that moment been 
entirely a stranger to; so much did the wealthy Flemings 
excel, not merely the poor and rude Scots, but the French 
themselves, in all the conveniences of domestic life. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE FLIGHT 

Now bid me run, 

And I will strive with things impossible— 

Yea, get the better of them. 

^****-:^*** 

Set on your foot; 

And, with a heart new fired, I follow you. 

To do I know not what. 

Julius Caesar. 

In spite of a mixture of joy and fear, doubt, anxiety, and 
other agitating passions, the exhausting fatigues of the preced¬ 
ing day were powerful enough to throw the young Scot into a 
deep and profound repose, which lasted until late on the day 
following; when his worthy host entered the apartment, with 
looks of care on his brow. 

He seated himself by his guest’s bedside, and began a long 
and complicated discourse upon the domestic duties of a 
married life, and especially upon the awful power and right 
supremacy which it became married men to sustain in all dif¬ 
ferences of opinion with their wives. Quentin listened with 
some anxiety. He knew that husbands, like other belligerent 
powers, were sometimes disposed to sing Te Deum} rather to 
conceal a defeat than to celebrate a victory; and he hastened 
to probe the matter more closely, “by hoping their arrival had 
been attended with no inconvenience to the good lady of the 
household.” 

“Inconvenience! no,” answered the burgomaster. “No 
woman can be less taken unawares than Mother Mabel— 
always happy to see her friends—always a clean lodging and a 
handsome meal ready for them, with God’s blessing on bed 

iTe Deum. Beginning of the ancient Latin hymn of praise Te Deum laudamus. 


M3 


344 


Quentin Durward \ 

and board. No woman on earth so hospitable; only ’tis pity 
her temper is something particular.” 

“Our residence here is disagreeable to her, in short?” said 
the Scot, starting out of bed, and beginning to dress himself 
hastily. “Were I but sure the Lady Isabelle were fit for ' 
travel after the horrors of the last night, we would not 1 
increase the offence by remaining here an instant longer.” 1 

“Nay,” said Pavilion, “that is just what the young lady 
Jjerself said to Mother Mabel; and truly I wish you saw the 
colour that came to her face as she said it—a milkmaid that 
has skated five miles to market against the frost-wind is a lily 
compared to it—I do not wonder Mother Mabel may be a 
little jealous,, poor dear soul.” 

“Has the Lady Isabelle then left her apartment?” said the 
youth, continuing his toilette operations with more despatch 
than before. 

“Yes,” replied Pavilion; “and she expects your approach 
with much impatience, to determine which way you shall go, 
since you are both determined on going. But I trust you will 
tarry breakfast?” 

“Why did you not tell me this sooner?” said Durward 
impatiently. 

“Softly—softly,” said the syndic; “I have told it you too 
soon, I think, if it puts you into such a hasty fluster. Now I 
have some more matter for your ear, if I saw you had some j 
patience to listen to me.” 

“Speak it, worthy sir, as soon and as fast as you can; I 
listen devoutly.” 

“Well, then,” resumed the burgomaster, “I have but one 
word to say, and that is, that Trudchen, who is as sorry to' 
part with yonder pretty lady as if she had been some sister of 
hers, wants you to take some other, disguise; for there is word 
in the town that the Ladies of Croye travel the country in 
pilgrim’s dresses, attended by a French life-guardsman of the 
Scottish Archers; and it is said one of them was brought 
into Schonwaldt last night by a Bohemian after we had left 



Quentin Durward 


345 


it; and it was said still farther, that this same Bohemian had 
assured William de la Marck that you were charged with no 
message either to him or to the good people of Liege, and that 
you had stolen away the young countess, and travelled with 
her as her paramour. And all this news hath come from 
Schonwaldt this morning; and it has been told to us and the 
other counsellors, who know not well what to advise; for 
though our own opinion is that W^illiam de la Marck has been 
a thought too rough both with the bishop and with ourselves, 
yet there is a great belief that he is a good-natured soul at 
bottom—that is, when he is sober—and that he is the only 
leader in the world to command us against the Duke of 
Burgundy—and, in truth, as matters stand, it is partly my 
own mind that we must keep fair with him, for we have gone 
too far to draw back.” 

“Your daughter advises well,” said Quentin Durward, 
abstaining from reproaches or exhortations, which he saw 
would be alike unavailing to sway a resolution, which had 
been adopted by the worthy magistrate in compliance at once 
with the prejudices of his party and the inclination of his 
wife; “your daughter counsels well. We must part in dis¬ 
guise, and that instantly. We may, I trust, rely upon you for 
the necessary secrecy, and for the means of escape?” 

“With all my heart—with all my heart,” said the honest 
citizen, who, not much satisfied with the dignity of his own 
conduct., was eager to find some mode of atonement. I can¬ 
not but remember that I owed you my life last night, both for 
unclasping that accursed steel doublet, and helping me through 
the other scrape, which was worse; for yonder Boar and his 
brood look more like devils than men. So I will be true to 
you as blade to haft, as our cutlers say, who are the best in the 
whole world. Nay, now you are ready, come this way; you 
shall see how far I can trust you.’ 

The syndic led him from the chamber in which he had 
slept to his own counting-room, in which he transacted his 
affairs of business; and after bolting the door, and casting a 





346 


Quentin Durward 

piercing and careful eye around him, he opened a concealed 
and vaulted closet behind the tapestry, in which stood more 
than one iron chest. He proceeded to open one which was 
full of guilders, and placed it at Quentin’s discretion, to take 
whatever sum he might think necessary for his companion’s 
expenses and his own. 

As the money with which Quentin was furnished on leav¬ 
ing Plessis was now nearly expended, he hesitated not to 
accept the sum of two hundred guilders; and by doing so took 
a great weight from the mind of Pavilion, who considered the 
desperate transaction in which he thus voluntarily became the 
creditor, as an atonement for the breach of hospitality which 
various considerations in a great measure compelled him to 
commit. 

Having carefully locked his treasure-chamber, the wealthy 
Fleming next conveyed his guest to the parlour, where, in full 
I possession of her activity of mind and body, though pale from 
the scenes of the preceding night, he found the countess 
attired in the fashion of a Flemish maiden of the middling 
class. No other was present excepting Trudchen, who was 
sedulously employed in completing the countess’s dress, and 
instructing her how to bear herself. She extended her hand 
to him, which, when he had reverently kissed, she said to him, 
“Seignior Quentin, we must leave our friends here, unless I 
would bring on them a part of the misery which has pursued 
me ever since my father’s death. You must change your dress 
and go with me, unless 3^ou also are tired of befriending a 
being so unfortunate.” 

“I!—I tired of being your attendant! To the end of the 
earth will I guard you! But you—you yourself—are you 
equal to the task you undertake? Can you, after the terrors 
of last night-” 

“Do not recall tliem to my memory,” answered the 
countess; “I remember but the confusion of a horrid dream. 
Has the excellent bishop escaped?” 

“I trust he is in freedom,” said Quentin, making a sign to 



347 


Quentin Durward 

Pavilion, who seemed about to enter on the dreadful nar- 
! rative, to be sildnt. 

“Is it possible for us to rejoin him? Hath he gathered 
; any power?” said the lad}'. 

I “His only hopes are in Heaven,” said the Scot; “but 
wherever you wish to go,, I stand by your side, a determined 
guide and guard.” 

“We will .consider,” said Isabelle; and after a moment’s 
pause, she added, “A convent would be my choice, but that I 
fear would prove a weak defence against those who pursue 
me.” 

“Hem! hem!” said the syndic, “I could not well recom¬ 
mend a convent within the district of Liege; because the Boar 
of Ardennes, though in the main a brave leader, a trusty con¬ 
federate, and a well-wisher to our city, has, nevertheless, 
rough humours, and payeth, on the whole, little regard to 
cloisters, convents, nunneries, and the like. Men say that 
there are a score of nuns—that is, such as were nuns—who 
march alwa5's with his compan}'.” 

“Get yourself in readiness hastily. Seignior Durward,” 
said Isabelle, interrupting this detail, “since to your faith I 
must needs commit m3'self.” 

No sooner had the syndic and Quentin left the room than 
Isabelle began to ask of Gertrude various questions concern¬ 
ing the roads, and so forth, with such clearness of spirit and 
pertinence, that the latter could not help exclaiming, “Lady, 
I wonder at you! I have heard of masculine firmness, but 
yours appears to me more than belongs to humanity.” 

“Necessity,” answered the countess—“necessity, my friend, 
is the mother of courage, as of invention. No long time since, 
I might have fainted when I saw a drop of blood shed from 
a trifling cut; I have since seen life-blood flow around me, I 
may say, in waves, yet I have retained my senses and my self- 
possession. Do not think it was an easy task,” she added, 
laying on Gertrude’s arm a trembling hand, although she still 
spoke with a firm voice ; “the little world within me is like a 




348 


Quentin Durward 

garrison besieged by a thousand foes, whom nothing but the 
most determined resolution can keep from storming it on 
every hand and at every moment. Were my situation one 
whit less perilous than it is—were I not sensible that my only 
chance to escape a fate more horrible than death is to retain 
my recollection and self-possession—Gertrude, I would at 
this moment throw myself into your arms, and relieve my 
bursting bosom by such a transport of tears and agony of 
terror as never rushed from a breaking heart!” 

“Do not do so, lady 1” said the sympathising Fleming; “take 
courage, tell your beads, throw yourself on the care of 
Heaven; and surely, if ever Heaven sent a deliverer to one 
ready to perish, that bold and adventurous young gentleman 
must be designed for yours. There is one, too,” she added, 
blushing deeply, “in whom I have some interest. Say nothing 
to my father; but I have ordered my bachelor, Hans Glover, 
to wait for you at the eastern gate, and never to see my face 
more, unless he brings word that he has guided you safe from 
the territory.” 

To kiss her tenderly was the only way in which the young 
countess could express her thanks to the frank and kind- 
hearted city-maiden, who returned the embrace affectionately, 
and added with a smile, “Nay, if two maidens and their 
devoted bachelors cannot succeed in a disguise and an escape, 
the vcorld is changed from what I am told it wont to be.” 

A part of this speech again called the colour into the 
countess’s pale cheeks, which was not lessened by Quentin’s 
sudden appearance. He entered completely attired as a Flem¬ 
ish boor of the better class, in the holyday suit of Peter, who 
expressed his interest in the young Scot by the readiness with 
which he parted with it for his use; and swore, at the same 
time, that, were he to be curried and tugged worse than ever 
was bullock’s hide, they should make nothing out' of him, to 
the betraying of the young folks. Two stout horses had been 
provided by the activity of Mother Mabel, who really desired 
the countess and her attendant no harm, so that she could 



Quentin Durward 


349 


make her own house and family clear of the dangers which 
might attend upon harbouring them. She beheld them mount 
I and go off with great satisfaction, after telling them that they 
would find their way to the east gate by keeping their eye on 
Peter, who was to walk in that direction as their guide,^ but 
without holding any visible communication with them. 

The instant her guests had departed. Mother Mabel took 
the opportunity to read a long practical lecture to Trudchen 
upon the ^folly of reading romances, whereby the flaunting 
ladies of the court were grown so bold and venturous, that, 
instead of applying to learn some honest housewifery, they 
must ride, forsooth, a damsel-erranting^ through the country, 
with no better attendant than some idle squire, debauched 
page, or rakehelly archer from foreign parts, to the great 
! danger of their health, the impoverishing of their substance, 

I and the irreparable prejudice of their reputation. 

All this Gertrude heard in silence, and without reply; 
but, considering her character, it might be doubted whether 
she derived from it the practical inference which it was her 
mother’s purpose to enforce. 

Meantime, the travellers had gained the eastern gate of 
the city, traversing crowds of people, who were fortunately 
too much busied in the political events and rumours of the 
hour to give any attention to a couple who had so little to 
render their appearance remarkable. They passed the guards 
in virtue of a permission obtained for them by Pavilion, but 
in the name of his colleague Rouslaer, and they took leave of 
Peter Geislaer with a friendly though brief exchange of good 
wishes on either side. Immediately afterwards they were 
joined by a stout young man, riding a good grey horse, who 
presently made himself known as Hans Glover, the bachelor 
of Trudchen Pavilion. He was a young fellow with a good 
Flemish countenance—not, indeed, of the most intellectual 
cast, but arguing more hilarity and good-humour than wit, 

^Damsel-erranting. Mother Mabel coins the phrase in sarcasm; compare the 
term knight-errant (errant, from Latin, errare, to wander). 




350 


Quentin Durward 

and, as the countess could not help thinking, scarce woithy 
to be bachelor to the generous Trudchen. He seemed, how¬ 
ever, fully desirous to second the views which she had foimed 
in their favour; for, saluting them respectfully, he asked of 
the countess in Flemish, on which road she desired to be 
conducted. 

“Guide me,” said she, “towards the nearest town on the 
frontiers of Brabant.” 

“You have then settled the end and object of your jour¬ 
ney?” said Quentin, approaching his horse to that of Isabelle, 
and speaking French,, which their guide did not understand. 

“Surely,” replied the joung lady; “for, situated as I now 
am, it must be of no small detriment to me if I were to pro¬ 
long a journey in my present circumstances, even though the 
termination should be a rigorous prison. 

“A prison!” said Quentin. 

“Yes, my friend, a prison; but I will take care that you 
shall not share it.” 

“Do not talk—do not think of me,” said Quentin. “Saw 
I you but safe, my own concerns are little worth minding. 

“Do not speak so loud,” said the Lady Isabelle; you will 
surprise our guide—you see he has already rode on before us;” 
for, in truth, the good-natured Fleming, doing as he desired 
to be done by, had removed from them the constraint of a 
third person, upon Quentin’s first motion towards the lady. 
“Yes,” she continued, when she noticed they were free from 
observation, “to you, my friend, my protector why should I 
be ashamed to call you what Heaven has made y^ou to me?— 
to you it is my duty to say, that my resolution is taken to 
return to my native country, and to throw myself on the 
mercy of the Duke of Burgundy. It was mistaken, though 
well-meant, advice which induced me ever to withdraw from 
his protection, and place myself under that of the crafty and 
false Louis of France.” 

“And 3^ou resolve to become the bride, then, nf the Count 
of Campo-basso, the unworthy favourite of Charles?” 


Quentin Durward 


3i 


Thus spoke Quentin, with a voice in which internal agony 
struggled with his desire to assume an indifferent tone, like 
that of the poor condemned criminal, when, alfecting a firm¬ 
ness which he is far from feeling, he asks if the death-warrant 
be arrived. 

“No Durward, no,” said the Lad,v Isabelle, sitting up 
erect in her saddle, “to that hated condition all Burgundy’s 
power shall not sink a daughter of the house of Cro5-'e. Bur¬ 
gundy may seize on my lands and fiefs, he may imprison my 
person in a convent; but that is the worst I have to expect; 
and worse than that I will endure ere I give my hand to 
Campo-basso.” 

“The worst!” said Quentin; “and what worse can there 
be than plunder and imprisonment? Oh, think, while you 
have God’s free air around you, and one by your side who will 
hazard life to conduct you to England, to Germany, even to 
Scotland, in all of which you shall find generous protectors. 
O, while this is the case, do not resolve so rashly to abandon 
the means of liberty, the best gift that Heaven gives! O, well 
sung a poet of my own land— 

“Ah, freedom is a noble thing; 

Freedom makes man to have liking; 

Freedom the zest to pleasure gives; 

He lives at ease who freely lives. 

Grief, sickness, poortith, want, are all 

Summ’d up within the name of thrall.”^ 

She listened with a melancholy smile to her guide’s tirade 
in praise of liberty; and then answered after a moment’s 
pause, “Freedom is for man alone; woman must ever seek a 
protector, since nature made her incapable to defend herself. 
And where am I to find one? In that voluptuary Edward of 
England"—in the inebriated Wenceslaus of Germany^—in 

iprom the earliest extant Scottish poem, a metrical life of Robert Bruce 
by John Barbour (1375). Poortith, in the fifth line, means poverty. 

^Edward of England. Edward III. 

^Wenceslaus of Germany. Scott was in error; Wenceslaus lost the throne of 
I Germany in 1400, and the emperor ruling at the time of this romance was 
Frederick IV. 




352 


Quentin Durward 

Scotland? Ah, Durward, were I your sister, and could you 
promise me shelter in some of those mountain-glens which you 
love to describe, where, for charity, or for the few jewels I 
have preserved, I might lead an unharassed life, and forget 
the lot I was born to—could you promise me the protection of 
some honoured matron of the land—of some baron whose 
heart was as true as his sword—that were indeed a prospect, 
for which it were worth the risk of farther censure to wander 
farther and wider!” 

There was a faltering tenderness of voice with which the 
Countess Isabelle made this admission that at once filled 
Quentin with a sensation of joy and cut him to the very heart. 
He,hesitated a moment ere he made an answer, hastily review¬ 
ing in his mind the possibility there might be that he could 
procure her shelter in Scotland; but the melancholy truth 
rushed on him, that it would be alike base and cruel to point 
out to her a course which he had not the most distant power 
or means to render safe. “Lady,” he said at last, “I should 
act foully against my honour and oath of chivalry did I suffer 
you to ground any plan upon the thoughts that I have the 
power in Scotland to afford you other protection than that of 
the poor arm which is now by your side. I scarce know that 
my blood flows in the veins of an individual who now lives in 
my native land. The Knight of Innerquharity stormed our 
castle at midnight, and cut off all that belonged to my name. 
Were I again in Scotland, our feudal enemies are numerous 
and powerful, I single and weak; and even had the king a 
desire to do me justice, he dared not, for the sake of redressing 
the wrongs of a poor individual, provoke a chief who rides 
with five hundred horse.” 

“Alas!” said the countess, “there is then no corner of the 
world safe from oppression, since it rages as unrestrained 
amongst those wild hills which afford so few objects to covet, 
as in our rich and abundant lowlands!” 

“It is a sad truth, and I dare not deny it,” said the Scot, 
“that, for little more than the pleasure of revenge and the lust 


353 


Quentin Durward 

of bloodshed, our hostile clans do the work of executioners on 
each other; and Ogilvies and the like act the same scenes in 
Scotland as De la Marck and his robbers do in this country.” 

“No more of Scotland, then,” said Isabelle, with a tone of 
indifference, either real or affected—“no more of Scotland, 
which indeed I mentioned but in jest, to see if you really 
dared recommend to me, as a place of rest, the most distracted 
kingdom in Europe. It was but a trial of your sincerity, 
which I rejoice to say may be relied on, even when your par¬ 
tialities are most strongly excited. So, once more, I will think 
of no other protection than can be afforded by the first hon¬ 
ourable baron holding of Duke Charles, to whom I am 
determined to render myself.” 

“And why not rather betake yourself to 5 ^our own estates, 
and to your own strong castle, as you designed when at 
Tours?” said Quentin. “Why not call around you the vas¬ 
sals of your father, and make treaty with Burgundy, rather 
than surrender yourself to him ? Surely there must be many a 
bold heart that would fight in ) our cause; and I know at 
least one who would willingly lay down his life to give 
example.” 

“Alas!” said the countess, “that scheme, the suggestion of 
the crafty Louis, and, like all which he ever suggested, 
designed more for his advantage than for mine, has become 
impracticable, sinc^ it was betrayed to Burgundy by the 
double traitor Zamet Maugrabin. My kinsman was then 
imprisoned, and my houses garrisoned. Any attempt of mine 
would but expose my dependents to the vengeance of Duke 
Charles; and why should I occasion more bloodshed than has 
already taken place on so worthless an account? No, I will 
submit myself to my sovereign as a dutiful vassal, in all which 
shall leave my personal freedom of choice uninfringed; the 
rather that I trust my kinswoman, the Countess Hameline, 
who first counselled, and indeed urged my flight, has already 
taken this wise and honpurable step.” 

“Your kinswoman !” repeated Quentin, awakened to recol- 


3 54 Quentin Durward 

lections to which the young countess was a stranger, and 
which the rapid succession of perilous and stirring events had, 
as matters of nearer concern, in fact banished from ' his 
memory. 

“Ay, my aunt, the Countess Hameline of Croye—know 
you aught of her?” said the Countess Isabelle; “I trust she is 
now under the protection of the Burgundian banner. \ on 
are silent! Know you aught of her?” 

The last question, urged in a tone of the most anxious 
inquiry, obliged Quentin to give some account of what he 
knew of the countess’s fate. He mentioned that he had been 
summoned to attend her in a flight from Liege, which he had 
no doubt' the Lady Isabelle would be partaker in; he men¬ 
tioned the discovery that had been made after they had gained 
the forest; and finally,, he told of his own return to the castle, 
and the circumstances in which he found it. But he said 
nothing of the views with which it was plain the Lady Hame¬ 
line had left the castle of Schonwaldt, and as little about the 
floating report of her having fallen into the hands of William 
de la Marck. Delicacy prevented his even hinting at the 
one, and regard for the feelings of his companion, at a moment 
when strength and exertion were most demanded of her, pre¬ 
vented him from alluding to the latter, which had, besides, 
only reached him as a mere rumour. 

This tale, though abridged of those important particulars, 
made a strong impression on the Countess Isabelle, who, after 
riding some time in silence, said at last, with a tone of cold 
displeasure, “And so you abandoned my unfortunate relative 
in a wild forest, at the mercy of a vile Bohemian and a 
traitorous waiting-woman? Poor kinswoman, thou wert 
wont to praise this youth’s good faith!” 

“Had I not done so, madam,” said Quentin, not unreason¬ 
ably offended at the turn thus given to his gallantry, “wdiat 
had been the fate of one to whose service I was far more 
devoutly bound? Had I not left the*Countess Hameline of 
Croye to the charge of those whom she had herself selected as 


355 


Quentin Durward 

counsellors and advisers, the Countess Isabelle’ had been ere 
now the bride of William de la March, the Wild Boar of 
Ardennes.” 

“You are right,” said the Countess Isabelle, in her usual 
manner; “and I, who have the advantage of 3^our unhesitat¬ 
ing devotion, have done you foul and ungrateful wrong. But 
oh, my unhappy kinswoman! and the wretch Marthon, who 
enjoj^ed so much of her confidence, and deserved it so little— 
it was she that Introduced to my kinswoman the wretched 
Zamet and Hayraddin Maugrabin, who by their pretended 
knowledge in soothsaying and astrology, obtained a great 
ascendency over her mind; It was she who, strengthening 
their predictions, encouraged her In—I know not what to call 
them—delusions concerning matches and lovers, which my 
kinswoman’s age rendered ungraceful and Improbable. I 
doubt not that, from the beginning, we had been surrounded 
by these snares by Louis of France, in order to determine us 
to take refuge at his court, or rather to put ourselves in his 
power; after which, rash act on our part, how unklngh^, 
unknightly, ignobly, ungentlemanlike, he hath conducted him¬ 
self towards us, you, Quentin Durward, can bear witness. 
But alas! my kinswoman—what think you will be her fate?” 

Endeavouring to inspire hopes which he scarce felt, Dur¬ 
ward answered that “The avarice of these people was 
stronger than an)>other passion; that Marthon, even when 
he left them, seemed to act rather as the Lady Hamellne’s 
protectress; and. In fine,, that It was difficult to conceive any 
object these wretches could accomplish by the Ill usage or 
murder of the countess, whereas they might be gainers by 
treating her well, and putting her to ransom.” 

To lead the Countess Isabelle’s thoughts from this melan¬ 
choly Subject, Quentin frankly told her the treachery of the 
^laugrabln, which he had discovered In the night-quarter 
near Namur, and which appeared the result of an agreement 
betwixt the King and William de la Marck. Isabelle shud¬ 
dered with horror, and then recovering herself,, said, “I am 


356 Quentin Durward 

ashamed, and I have sinned in permitting myself so far to 
doubt of the saints’ protection, as for an instant to have 
deemed possible the accomplishment of a scheme so utterly 
cruel, base, and dishonourable, w^hile there are pitying eyes in 
Heaven to look do\yn on human miseries. It is not a thing to 
be thought of with fear or abhorrence, but to be rejected as 
such a piece of incredible treachery and villainy as it were 
atheism to believe could ever be successful. But I now see 
plainly why that hypocritical Marthon often seemed to foster 
every seed of petty jealousy or discontent betwixt my poor 
kinswoman and myself, whilst she always mixed with flattery, 
addressed to the individual who was present, whatever could 
prejudice her against her absent kinswoman. Yet never did I 
dream she could have proceeded so far as to have caused my 
once affectionate kinswoman to have left me behind in the 
perils of Schonwaldt, while she made her own escape.” 

“Did the Lady Hameline not mention to you, then,” said 
Quentin, “her intended flight?” 

“No,” replied the countess, “but she alluded to some com¬ 
munication which Marthon was to make to me. To say truth, 
my poor kinswoman’s head was so turned by the mysterious 
jargon of the miserable Hayraddin, whom that day she had 
admitted to a long and secret conference, and she threw out so 
many strange hints,, that—that—in short, I cared not to press 
on her, when in that humour, for any explanation. Yet it 
was cruel to leave me behind her.” 

“I will excuse the Lady Hameline from intending such 
unkindness,” said Quentin; “for such was the agitation of the 
moment, and the darkness of the hour, that I believe the Lady 
Hameline as certainly conceived herself accompanied by her 
niece, as I at the same time, deceived by Marthon’s dress and 
demeanour, supposed I was in the company of both the Ladies 
of Croye—and of her especially,” he added, with a low but 
determined voice, “without whom the wealth of worlds would 
not have tempted me to leave Schonwaldt.'^ 

Isabelle stooped her head qeenaed scarce to 


Quentin Durward 


357 


hear the emphasis with which Quentin had spoken. But she 
turned her face to him again when he began to speak of the 
policy of Louis; and it was not difficult for them, by mutual 
communication, to ascertain that the Bohemian brothers, with 
their accomplice Marthon, had been the agents of that crafty 
monarch, although Zamet, the elder of them, with a perfidy 
' peculiar to his race, had attempted to play a double game, and 
had been punished accordingly. In the same humour of 
mutual confidence, and forgetting the singularity of their own 
situation, as well as the perils of the road, the travellers pur¬ 
sued their journey for several hours, only stopping to refresh 
their horses at a retired dorff, or hamlet, to which they were 
, conducted by Hans Glover, who, in all other respects, as well 
' as in leaving them much to their own freedom in conversation, 
? conducted himself like a person of reflection and discretion. 

Meantime, the artificial distinction which divided the two 
lovers, for such we may now term them, seemed dissolved, or 
removed, by the circumstances in which they were placed ; for 
if the countess boasted the higher rank, and was by birth 
entitled to a fortune incalculably larger than that of the 
youth, whose revenue lay in his sword, it was to be considered 
that, for the present, she was as poor as he, and for her safety, 
honour, and life exclusively indebted to his presence of mind, 
valour, and devotion. They spoke not indeed of love, for 
though the young lady, her heart full of gratitude and con¬ 
fidence, might have pardoned such a declaration, yet Quentin, 
on whose tongue there was laid a check, both by natural 
timidity and by the sentiments of chivalry, would have held 
it an unworthy abuse of her situation had he said anything 
which could have the appearance of taking undue advantage 
of the opportunities which it afforded them. They spoke not 
then of love, but the thoughts of it were on both sides unavoid¬ 
able ; and thus they were placed in that relation to each other 
in which sentiments of mutual regard are rather understood 
than announced, and which, with the freedoms which it per¬ 
mits, and the uncertainties that attend it, often forms the most 


358 


Quentin Durward 

delightful hours of human existence, and as frequently leads 
to those which are darkened by disappointment, fickleness, and 
all the pains of blighted hope and unrequited attachment. 

It was two hours after noon, when the travellers were 
alarmed by the report of the guide, who, with paleness and 
horror in his countenance, said that they were pursued by a 
party of De la March’s Schivarzreitei's} These soldiers,, or 
rather banditti, were bands levied in the Lower Circles of 
Germany, and resembled the lanzknechts in every particular, 
except that the former acted as light cavalry. To maintain 
the name of Black Troopers, and to strike additional terror 
into their enemies, they usually rode on black chargers and 
smeared with black ointment (their arms and accoutrements, in 
which operation their hands and faces often had their share. 
In morals and in ferocity these schwarzreiters emulated their 
pedestrian brethren the lanzknechts. 

On looking back, and discovering along the long level 
road which they had traversed a cloud of dust advancing, with 
one or two of the headmost troopers riding furiously in front 
of it, Quentin addressed his companion, “Dearest Isabelle, I 
have no weapon left save my sword ; but since I cannot fight 
for you, I will fly with you. Could we gain yonder wood 
that is before us ere they come up, we may easily find means 
to escape.” < 

“So be it, my only friend,” said Isabelle, pressing her 
horse to the gallop; “and thou, good fellow,” she added, 
addressing Hans Glover, “get thee off to another road, and do 
not stay to partake our misfortune and danger.” 

The honest Fleming shook his head, and answered her 
generous exhortation with “Nein, ne'in! das geht nic}it”~ and 
continued to attend them, all three riding towards the shelter 
of the woods as fast as their jaded horses could go, pursued, 
at the same time, by tbe schwarzreiters, who increased their 
pare when they saw them fl}-. But notwithstanding the 


^Schwarzreiters. See Note 20 at end of the novel. 
^Nein, nein, etc. No, no! that will not do. 


359 


' Quentin Durward 

fatigue of the horses, still the fugitives, being unarmed, and 
riding lighter in consequence, had considerably the advantage 
of the pursuers, and were within about a quarter of a mile of 
the wood, when a body of men-at-arms, under a knight’s 
pennon, was discovered advancing from the cover, so as to 
intercept their flight. 

“They have bright armour,” said Isabelle; “they must be 
Burgundians. Be they who they will, we must yield to them,, 
rather than to the lawless miscreants who puisue us.” 

A moment after she exclaimed, looking on the pennon, “I 
know the cloven heart ^ w'hich it displays! It is the banner of 
the Count of Crevecceur, a noble Burgundian; to him I will 
surrender myself.” 

Quentin Durward ’sighed; but what other alternative 
remained ? and how happy would he have been but an instant 
before, to have been certain of the escape of Isabelle, even 
under v/orse terms? They soon joined the band of Creve- 
coeur, and the countess demanded to speak to the leader, who 
had halted his party till he should reconnoitre the black 
troopers; and as he gazed on her with doubt and uncertainty, 
she said, “Noble count, Isabelle of Croye, the daughter of 
your old companion in arms, Count Reinold of Croye, renders 
herself, and asks protection from your valour for her and 
hers.” 

“Thou shalt have it fair kinswoman, were it against a 
host, always excepting my liege Lord of Burgundy. But there 
is little time to talk of it. These filthy-looking fiends have 
made a halt, as if they intended to dispute the matter. By St. 
George of Burgundy, they have the insolence to advance 
against the banner of Crevecceur! What! wn’ll not the knaves 
be ruled ? Damian, my lance. Advance banner. Lay j^our 
spears in the rest. Crevecceur to the rescue 1” 

Crying his war-cry, and followed by his men-at-arms, he 
galloped rapidly forward to charge the schwarzreiters. 


^The Cloven Heart. Significant of the name Crevecceur. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE SURRENDER 

Rescue or none, sir knight, I am your captive; 

Deal with me what your nobleness suggests. 

Thinking the chance of war may one day place you 
Where I must now be reckon’d—i’ the roll 
Of melancholy prisoners. 

A nonymous. 

The skirmish betwixt the schwarzreiters and the Bur¬ 
gundian men-at-arms lasted scarcely five minutes, so soon 
were the former put to the rout by the superiority of the latter 
in armour, weight of horse, and military spirit. In less than the 
space we have mentioned, the Count of Crevecoeur, wiping his 
bloody sword upon his horse’s mane ere he sheathed it, came 
back to the verge of the forest, where Isabelle had remained a 
spectator of the combat. One part of his people followed him, 
while the other continued to pursue the flying enemy for a 
little space along thejcauseway. 

“It is shame,” said the count, “that the weapons of 
knights and gentlemen should) be soiled by the blood of those 
brutal swine.” 

So saying, he returned his weapon to the sheath, and 
added, “This is a rough welcome to your home, my pretty 
cousin; but wandering princesses must expect such adventures. 
And well I came up in time, for, let me assure you, the black 
troopers respect a countess’s coronet as little as a country 
wench’s coif,^ and I think your retinue is not qualified for 
much resistance.” 

“My lord count,” said the Lady Isabelle, “without farther 
preface, let me know if I am a prisoner, and where 3^ou are to 
conduct me.” 


iCo//. A cap or head-dress. 


Quentin Durward 36i 

ou know, you silly child,” answered the count, “how 1 
would answer that question, did it rest on my own will. But 
you and your foolish match-making, marriage-hunting aunt 
have made such wild use of your wdngs of late, that I fear you 
must be contented to fold them up in a cage for a little while. 
For my part, my duty, and it is a sad one, will be ended when 
I have conducted you to the court of the Duke, at Peronne; 
for which purpose I hold it necessary to deliver the command 
^ of this reconnoitring party to my nephew. Count Stephen, 

• while I return with you thither, as I think you may need an 
intercessor. And I hope the young giddy-pate will discharge 

I his duty wisely.” 

’ “So please you, fair uncle,” said Count Stephen, “if you 
I doubt my capacity to conduct the men-at-arms, even remain 

* with them yourself, and I will be the servant and guard of 
the Countess Isabelle of Croye.” 

“No doubt, fair nephew,” answered his uncle, “this were 
a goodly improvement on my scheme; but methinks I like it 
as well the way I planned it. Please you, therefore, to take 
^ notice, that your business here is not to hunt after and stick 
these black hogs, for which you seemed but now to have felt 
an especial vocation, but to collect and bring to me true tid¬ 
ings what is going forward in the country of Liege, concerning 
w’hich we hear such wild rumours. Let some half score of 
lances follow me, and the rest remain with my banner under 
3 ^our guidance.” 

“Yet one moment, cousin of Crevecoeur,” said the Countess 
Isabelle, “and let me, in yielding myself prisoner, stipulate at 
least for the safety of those who have befriended me in my 
misfortunes. Permit this good fellow, my .trusty guide, to go 
back unharmed to his native town of Liege.” 

“My nephew,” said Crevecoeur, after looking sharply at 
Glover’s honest breadth of countenance, “shall guard this 
good fellow, w’ho seems, indeed, to have little harm in him, 
as far into the territory as he himself advances, and then leave 
him at liberty.” 


362 


Quentix Durward 

“Fail not to remember me to the kind Gertrude,” said the 
countess to her guide; and added, taking a string of pearls 
from under her veil, “Pray her to wear this in remembrance 
of her unhappy friend.” 

Honest Glover took the string of pearls, and kissed, with 
clownish gesture but with sincere kindness, the fair hand 
which had found such a delicate mode of remunerating his 
own labours and peril. 

“Umph! signs and tokens!” said the count; “any farther 
bequests to make, my fair cousin? It Is time we were on our 

yy 

way. 

“Only,” said the countess, making an effort to speak, “that 
you will be pleased to be favourable to this—this young 
gentleman.” 

“Umph!” said Crevecoeur, casting the same penetrating 
glance on Quentin which he had bestowed on Glover,, but 
apparently with a much less satisfactory result, and mimick¬ 
ing, though not offensively, the embarrassment of the 
countess—“umph! Ay, this is the blade of another temper. 
And pray, my cousin, what has this—this very young gentle¬ 
man done to deserve such intercession at your hands?” 

“He hath saved my life and honour,” said the countess, 
reddening with shame and resentment. 

Quentin also blushed with indignation, but wisely con¬ 
cluded that to give vent to it might only make matters worse. 

“Life and honour! Umph!” said again the Count Creve¬ 
coeur; “methinks It would have been as well, my cousin, if 
you had not put j^ourself in the way of lying under such obli¬ 
gations to this very young gentleman. But let it pass. The 
3'Oung gentleman may wait on us, if his quality permit, and I 
will see he haS no Injury; only I will myself take in future 
the office of protecting your life and honour, and may perhaps 
find for him some fitter duty than that of being a squire of the 
body to damosels errant.” 

“My lord count,” said Durward, unable to keep silence 
any longer, “lest you should talk of a stranger in slighter 


363 


Quentin Durward 

terms than you might afterwards think becoming, I take leave 
to tell you that I am Quentin Durward, an archer of the 
Scottish Body-Guard,, in whicli, as you well know, none but 
gentlemen and men of honour are enrolled.” 

“I thank you for your information, and I kiss your hands, 
seignior archer,” said Creveccrur, in the same tone of raillery. 
“Have the goodness to ride with me to the front of the party.” 

As Quentin moved onward at the command of the count, 
who had now the power, if not the right, to dictate his 
motions, he observed that the Lady Isabelle followed his 
motions with a look of anxious and timid interest, which 
amounted almost to tenderness, and the sight of which 
brought water into his eyes. But he remembered that he had 
a man’s part to sustain before Crevecoeur, who, perhaps, of all 
the chivalry in France or Burgundy, was the least likely to be 
moved to anything but laughter by a tale of true-love sorrow. 
He determined, therefore, not to wait his addressing him, but 
to open the conversation in a tone which should assert his 
claim to fair treatment, and to more respect than the count, 
offended perhaps at finding a person of such inferior note 
placed so near the confidence of his high-born and wealthy 
cousin, seemed disposed to entertain for him. 

“My Lord Count of Crevecoeur,” he said in a temperate 
but firm tone of voice, “may I request of you, before our inter¬ 
view goes fartlier, to tell me if I am at liberty, or am to 
account myself 3^our prisoner?” » 

“A shrewd question,” replied the count, “which, at 
present, I can only answer by another. Are France and Bur¬ 
gundy, think you, at peace or war with each other?” 

“That,” replied the Scot, “you, my lord, should certainly 
know better than 1 . 1 have been absent from the court of 

France and have heard no news for some time.” 

“Look you there,” said the count, “you see how easy it is 
to ask questions, but how difficult to answer them. Why, I 
myself,, who have been at Peronne with the Duke for this 
week and better, cannot resolve this riddle any more than 


364 Quentin Durward 

you; and yet, sir squire, upon the solution of that question 
depends the said point whether you are prisoner or free man ; 
and, for the present, I must hold you as the former. Only, if 
you have really and honestly been of service to my kinswoman, 
and if you are candid in your answers to the questions I shall 
ask, affairs shall stand the better with you.” 

“The Countess of Croye,” said Quentin, “is best judge if 
I have rendered any service, and to her I refer you on that 
matter. My answers you will yourself judge of when you ask 
me your questions.” 

“Umph! haughty enough,” muttered the Count of Creve- 
coeur, “and very like one that wears a lady’s favour in his hat, 
and thinks he must carry things with a high tone, to honour 
the precious remnant of silk and tinsel. Well, sir, I trust it 
will be no abatement of your dignity if you answer me how 
long you have been about the person of the Lady Isabelle of 
Croye?” 

“Count of Crevecoeur,” said Quentin Durward, “if I 
answer questions which are asked in a tone approaching 
towards insult., it is only lest injurious inferences should be 
drawn from my silence respecting one to whom we are both 
obliged to render justice. I have acted as escort to the Lady 
Isabelle since she left France to retire into Flanders.” 

“Ho! ho!” said the count; “and that is to say, since she 
fled from Plessis-les-Tours? You, an archer of the Scottish 
Guard, accompanied her, of course, by the express orders of 
King Louis?” 

However little Quentin thought himself Indebted to the 
King of France, who, in contriving the surprisal of the 
Countess Isabelle by William de la Marck, had probably cal¬ 
culated on the 5’oung Scotchman being slain in her defence, he 
did not yet conceive himself at liberty to betray any trust 
which Louis had reposed, or had seemed to repose, in him, and 
therefore replied to Count Crevecoeur’s inference, “That it 
was sufficient for him to have the authority of his superior 
officer for what he had done, and he inquired no farther.” 


Quentin Durward 


36S 


“It is quite sufficient,” said the count. “We know the 
King does not permit his officers to send the archers of his 
Guard to prance like paladins by the bridle-rein of wandering 
ladies, unless he hath some politic purpose to serve. It will be 
difficult for King Louis to continue to aver so boldly that he 
knew not of the Ladies of Croye’s having escaped from 
I France, since they were escorted by one of his own life-guard. 

I And whither, sir archer,, was your retreat directed?” 

“To Liege, my lord,” answered the Scot; “where the 
j ladies desired to be placed under the protection of the late 
I bishop.” 

“The late bishop!” exclaimed the Count of Crevecoeur; 
“is Louis of Bourbon dead? Not a word of his illness had 
I reached the Duke. Of what did he die?” 

, “He sleeps in a bloody grave, my lord—that is, if his 
murderers have conferred one on his remains.” 

“Murdered!” exclaimed Crevecoeur again. “Holy Mother 
of Heaven! Young man, it is impossible!” 

“I saw the deed done with my own eyes, and many an act 
of horror besides.” 

“Saw it, and made not in to help the good prelate!” 
exclaimed the count, “or to raise the castle against his mur¬ 
derers? Know’st thou not, that even to look on such a deed, 
without resisting it, is profane sacrilege?” 

“To be brief, my lord,” said Durward, “ere this act was 
done, the castle was stormed by the bloodthirsty William de la 
Marck, with help of the insurgent Liegeois.” 

“I am struck with thunder!” said Crevecoeur. “Liege in 
insurrection! Schonwaldt taken! The bishop murdered! 
Messenger of sorrow, never did one man unfold such a packet 
of woes! Speak—knew you of this assault—of this insurrec¬ 
tion—of this murder? Speak—thou art one of Louis’s trusted 
archers, and it is he that has aimed this painful arrow. Speak, 
or I will have thee torn with wild horses!” 

“And if I am so torn, my lord, there can be nothing rent 
out of me that may not become a true Scottish gentleman. I 




366 


Quentin Durward 

known no more of these villainies than you—was so far from 
being partaker in them, that 1 would have withstood them to 
the uttermost, had my means, in a twentieth degree, equalled 
my inclination. But what could 1 do? they were hundreds 
and I but one. My only care was to rescue the Countess 
Isabelle, and in that I was happily successful. Yet, had I been 
near enough when the ruffian deed was so cruelly done on the 
old man, I had saved his grey hairs, or I had avenged them; 
and as it was, my abhorrence was spoken loud enough to pre¬ 
vent other horrors.” 

“I believe thee, youth,” said the count; “thou art neither 
of an age nor nature to be trusted with such bloody work, 
however well fitted to be the squire of dames. But alas! for 
the kind and generous prelate, to be murdered on the hearth 
where he so often entertained the stranger with Christian 
charity and princely bounty; and that by a wretch — a 
monster—a portentous growth of blood and cruelty—bred up 
in the very hall where he has imbrued his hands in his bene¬ 
factor’s blood! But I know not Charles of Burgundy—nay,, 
I should doubt of the justice of Heaven—if vengeance be not 
as sharp, and sudden, and severe as this villainy has been 
unexampled in atrocity. And, if no other shall pursue the 
murderer”—here he paused, grasped his sword, then quitting 
his bridle, struck both gauntleted hands upon his breast, until 
his corslet clattered, and finally held them up to Heaven, as 
he solemnly continued—“I—I, Philip Crevecicur of Cordes, 
make a vow to God, St. Lambert, and the Three Kings of 
Cologne, that small shall be my thought of other earthly con¬ 
cerns till I take full revenge on the murderers of the good 
Louis of Bourbon, whether I find them in forest or field, in 
city or in country, in hill or plain, in king’s court or in God’s 
church; and thereto I pledge lands and living, friends and 
followers, life and honour. So help me God and St. Lambert 
of Liege, and the Three Kings of Cologne!” 

When the Count of Crevecmur had made his vow, his 
mind seemed in some sort relieved from the overwhelming 


Quentin Durward 


367 


grief and astonishment with which he had lieard the fata^ 
traged}’ that had been acted at Schonwaldt, and he proceeded 
to question Durward mot-e minutely concerning the particu¬ 
lars of that disastrous affair, which the Scot, nowdse desirous 
to abate the spirit of revenge which the count entertained 
against William de la Alarck, gave him at full length. 

“But those blind, unsteady, faithless, fickle beasts, the 
Liegeois,” said the count, “that they should have combined 
themselves with this inexorable robber and murderer to put to 
death their lawful prince!” 

Durw’ard he^e informed the enraged Burgundian that the 
Liegeois, or at least the better class of them, however rashly 
they had run into the rebellion against their bishop, had no 
design, so far as appeared to him, to aid in the execrable deed 
of De la Marck; but, on the contrary, would have prevented 
it if they had had the means, and were struck with horror 
when they beheld it. 

“Speak not of the faithless, inconstant, plebeian rabble!” 
said Crevecoeur. “When they took arms against a prince who 
had no fault save that he was too kind and too good a master 
for such a set of ungrateful slaves—when they armed against 
him, and broke into his peaceful house, what could there be in 
their intention but murder? When they banded themselves 
with the Wild Boar of Ardennes, the greatest homicide in the 
marches of Flanders, what else could there be in their pur¬ 
pose but murder, which is the very trade he lives by? And 
again, was it not one of their own vile rabble who did the 
very deed by thine own account? I hope to see their canals 
running blood by the light of their burning houses. Oh, the 
kind, noble, generous lord whom they have slaughtered! Other 
vassals had rebelled under the pressure of imposts and penury ; 
but the men of Liege in the fulness of insolence and plenty.” 
He again abandoned the reins of his war-horse and wrung 
bitterly the hands w^hich his mail-gloves rendered untractable. 
Quentin easily saw that the grief which he manifested was 
augmented by the bitter recollection of past intercourse and 


368 


Quentin Durward 


friendship with the sufferer, and was silent accordingly, 
respecting feelings which he was unwilling to aggravate, and 
at the same time felt it impossible to^ soothe. 

But the Count of Crevecoeur returned again and again to 
the subject—questioned him on every particular of the sur¬ 
prise of Schonwaldt, and the death of the bishop; and then 
suddenly, as if he had recollected something which had 
escaped his memory, demanded what had become of the Lady 
Hameline, and why she was not with her kinswoman. “Not,” 
he added contemptuously, “that I consider her absence as at 
all a loss to the Countess Isabelle; for, although she was her 
kinswoman, and upon the whole a well-meaning woman, yet 
the court of Cocagne ^ never produced such a fantastic fool; 
and I hold it for certain that her niece, whom I always 
observed to be a modest and orderly young woman, was led 
into the absurd frolic of flying from Burgundy to France by 
that blundering, romantic., old match-making and match¬ 
seeking idiot.” 

What a speech for a romantic lover to hear! and to hear, 
too, when it would have been ridiculous in him to attempt 
what it was impossible for him to achieve—namely, to con¬ 
vince the count, by force of arms, that he did foul wrong to 
the countess—the peerless in sense as in beauty—in terming 
her a modest and orderly young woman, qualities which might 
have been predicated with propriety of the daughter of a sun¬ 
burnt peasant, who lived by goading the oxen, while her 
father held the plough. And, then, to suppose her under the 
domination and supreme guidance of a silly and romantic 
aunt—the slander should have been repelled down the slan¬ 
derer’s throat. But the open, though severe, physiognomy of 
the Count of Crevecoeur, the total contempt which he seemed 
to entertain for those feelings which were uppermost in 
Quentin’s bosom, overawed him; not for fear of the count’s 

^Court of Cocagne. The “Land of Cockaigne” is an imaginary land of delight 
—especially for idle gluttons; roasted geese waddle about crving “all hot, all hot;” 
houses are made of cake; rivers run wine. There is an early English poem with 
this title. 



369 


Quentin Durward 

fame in arms—that was a risk which would have increased his 
desire of making out a challenge—but in dread of ridicule, 
the weapon of all others most feared by enthusiasts of every 
description, and which, from its predominance over such 
minds, often checks what is absurd, and fully as often 
smothers that which is noble. 

Under the influence of this fear of becoming an object of 
scorn rather than resentment, Durward, though with some 
pain, confined his reply to a confused account of the Lady 
Hameline having made her escape from Schonwaldt before 
the attack took place. He could not, indeed, have made his 
story very distinct without throwing ridicule on the near 
relation of Isabelle, and perhaps incurring some himself, as 
having been the object of her preposterous expectations. He 
added to his embarrassed detail, that he had heard a report, 
though a vague one, of the Lady Hameline having again fallen 
into the hands of William de la Marck. 

“I trust in St. Lambert that he will marry her,” said 
Crevecoeur; ^^as, indeed, he is likely enough to do, for the 
I sake of her money-bags; and equally likely to knock her on 

I the head so soon as these are either secured in his own grasp 

or, at farthest, emptied.” 

The count then proceeded to ask so many questions concern¬ 
ing the mode in which both ladies had conducted themselves 
on the journey, the degree of intimacy to which they admitted 
Quentin himself, and other trying particulars, that, vexed and 
ashamed and angry, the youth was scarce able to conceal his 
embarrassment from the keen-sighted soldier and courtier, 
who seemed suddenly disposed to take leave of him, saying, at 
the same time, “Umph—I see it as I conjectured, on one side 
at least; I trust the other party has kept her senses better. 
Come, sir squire, spur on and keep the van, while I fall back 
to disburse with the Lady Isabelle. I think I have learned 
now so much from you that I can talk to her of these sad 
passages without hurting her nicety, though I have fretted 
yours a little. Yet stay, young gallant—one word ere you go. 




370 


Q U CX 1 ] X D U R\VARD 

\ ou have had, I imagine, a happy journey through Fairy¬ 
land—all full of heroic adventure, and high hope, and wild, 
minstrel-like delusion, like the gardens of Morgaine la Fee} 
Forget it all, young soldier,” he added, tapping him on the 
shoulder. “Remember 3'onder lady only as the honoured 
Countess of Cro5^e; forget her as a wandering and adven¬ 
turous damsel. And her friends—one of them I can answer 
for—will remember, on their part, only the services you have 
done her, and forget the unreasonable reward wdiich )Ou have 
had the boldness to propose to yourself.” 

Enraged that he had, been unable to conceal from the 
sharp-sighted Crevecoeur feelings which the count seemed to 
consider as the object of ridicule, Quentin replied indignantly, 
“My lord count, when I require advice of you, I will ask it; 
when I demand assistance of you, it will be time enough to 
grant or refuse it; when I set peculiar value on your opinion 
of me, it will not be too late to express it.” 

Heyday!’ said the count; “1 have come bet.ween Amadis 
and Oriana,“ and must expect a challenge to the lists!” 

ou speak as if that were an impossibility,” said Quentin. 
“When I broke a lance with the Duke of Orleans, it was 
against a breast in which flowed better blood than that of 
Crevecoeur. When I measured swords with Dunois, I 
engaged a better warrior.” 

“Now Heaven nourish thy judgment, gentle youth!” said 
Crevecoeur, still laughing at the chivalrous inamorato} “If 
thou speak’st truth, thou hast had singular luck in this world ; 
and, truly, if it be the pleasure of Providence exposes thee to 
such trials, without a beard on thy lip, thou wilt be mad with 
vanity ere thou writest thyself man. Thou canst not move 
me to anger, though thou mayst to mirth. Believe me, though 
thou mayst have fought with princes and played the cham- 

^Morgaine la Fee. The fairy Morgana; pupil of Merlin the Magician, and 
half-sister of King Arthur. 

^Amadis and Oriana. Hero and heroine of a mediaeval romance of chivalrv 
Amadis of Gaul. 

^Inamorato. Lover. 


371 


Quentin Durward 

pion for countesses, by some of those freaks which Fortune will 
sometimes exhibit, thou art by no means the equal of those of 
whom thou hast been either the casual opponent or more 
casual companion. I can allow thee, like a 5^outh who hath 
listened to romances till he fancied himself a paladin, to form 
pretty dreams for some time; but thou must not be angry at 
a well-meaning friend, though he shake thee something 
roughly by the shoulders to awake thee.” 

j “My lord of Crevecocur,” said Quentin, “my family-” 

“Nay, it was not utterly of family that I spoke,” said the 
, count; “but of rank, fortune, high station, and so forth, whM' 

■ place a distance between various degrees and classes of persons. 
As for birth, all men are descended from Adam and Eve.” 
“My lord count,” repeated Quentin, “my ancestors, the 

Durwards of Glen Houlakin-” 

“Nay,” said the count, “if you claim a farther descent for 
them than from Adam, I have done! Good-even to you.” 

He reined back his horse, and paused to join the countess, 
to whom, if possible, his insinuations and advices, however 
well meant, were still more disagreeable than to Quentin, 
who, as he rode on, muttered to himself, “Cold-blooded, 
insolent, overweening coxcomb! Would that the next Scottish 
archer who has his harquebuss pointed at thee may not let thee 
off so easily as I did !” 

In the evening they reached the town of Charleroi, on the 
Sambre, where the Count of Crevecoeur had determined to 
leave the Countess Isabelle, whom the terror and fatigue of 
yesterday, joined to a flight of fifty miles since morning and 
the various distressing sensations by which it was accom¬ 
panied, had made incapable of travelling farther, with safety 
to her health. The count consigned her, in a state of great 
exhaustion, to the care of the abbess of the Cistercian convent ^ 
in Charleroi, a noble lady to whom both the families of Creve- 


^Cisteycian convent. The Cistercians took their name from the original seat 
of their order at the convent of Citeaux (Latin, Cistercium) at Dijon in France. 





372 


Quentin Durward 

coeur and Croje were related, and in whose prudence and 
kindness he could repose confidence. 

Crevecocur himself only stopped to recommend the utmost 
caution to the governor of a small Burgundian garrison who 
occupied the place, and required him also to mount a guard of 
honour upon the convent during the residence of the Countess 
Isabelle of Croye—ostensibly to secure her safety, but perhaps 
secretly to prevent her attempting to escape. The count only 
assigned as a cause for the garrison being vigilant some vague 
rumours which he had heard of disturbances in the bishopric 
of Liege. But he was determined himself to be the first who 
should carry the formidable news of the insurrection and the 
murder of the bishop, in all their horrible reality, to Duke 
Charles; and for that purpose, having procured fresh horses 
for himself and suite, he mounted wfith the resolution of con¬ 
tinuing his journey to Peronne without stopping for repose; 
and informing Quentin DuiAvard that he must attend him, he 
made at the same time, a mock apology for parting fair com¬ 
pany, but hoped that to so devoted a squire of dames a night’s 
journey by moonshine \<^ould be more agreeable than supinely 
to yield himself to slumber like an ordinary mortal. 

Quentin, already sufficiently afflicted by finding that he 
was to be parted from Isabelle, longed to answer this taunt 
with an indignant defiance; but aware that the count would 
only laugh at his anger and despise his challenge, he resolved 
to wait some future time, when he might have an opportunity 
of obtaining some amends from this proud lord, who, though 
for very different reasons, had become nearly as odious to him 
as the Wild Boar of Ardennes himself. He therefore assented 
to Crevecoeur’s proposal, as to what he had no choice of 
declining, and they pursued in company, and with all the 
despatch they could exert, the road between Charleroi and 
Peronne. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE UNBIDDEN GUEST 

No human quality is so well wove 

In warp and woof but there’s some flaw in it. 

, I’ve known a brave man fly a shepherd’s cur, 

A wise man so demean him, drivelling idiocy 
Had well-nigh been ashamed on’t. For your crafty. 

Your worldly-wise man, he, above the rest. 

Weaves his own snares so fine, he’s often caught in them. 

Old Play. 

I Quentin, during the earlier part of the night-journey, 

had to combat with that bitter heartache which is felt when 
; youth parts, and probably for ever, with her he loves. As, 
pressed by the urgency of the moment and the impatience of 
Crevecceur, they hasted on through the rich lowlands of 
Hainault, under the benign guidance of a rich and lustrous 
h.arvest-moon, she shed her yellow influence over rich and 
deep pastures, woodland, and corn-fields, from which the hus¬ 
bandmen were using her light to withdraw the grain, such 
was the industry of the Flemings even at that period; she 
shone on broad, level, and fructifying rivers, where glided the 
white sail in the service of commerce, uninterrupted by rock 
or torrent, beside quiet villages, whose external decency and 
cleanliness expressed the ease and comfort of the inhabitants; 
she gleamed upon the feudal castle of many a gallant baron 
and knight, with its deep moat, battlemented court, and high 
belfry, for the chivalry of Hainault was renowned among the 
nobles of Europe; and her light displayed at a distance, in its 
broad beam, the gigantic towers of more than one lofty 
minster. 

Yet all this fair variety, however differing from the waste 
and wilderness of his own land, interrupted not the course of 


373 





374 Quentin Durward 

Quentin’s regrets and sorrows. He had left his heart behind 
him, when he departed from Charleroi; and the only reflec¬ 
tion which the farther journey inspired was, that every step 
was carrying him farther from Isabelle. His imagination was 
taxed to recall every word she had spoken, every look she 
had directed towards him; and, as happens frequently in 
such cases, tlie impression made upon his imagination by the 
recollection of these particulars was even stronger than the 
realities themselves had excited. 

At length, after the cold hour of midnight was past, in 
spite alike of love and of sorrow, the extreme fatigue which 
Quentin had undergone the two preceding days began to have 
an effect on him, which his habits of exercise of every kind, 
and his singular alertness and activity of character, as well as 
the painful nature of the reflections which occupied his 
thoughts, had hitherto prevented his experiencing. The 
ideas of his mind began to be so little corrected by the exer¬ 
tions of his senses, worn out and deadened as the latter now 
were by extremity of fatigue, that the visions which the 
former drew superseded or perverted the information con- 
vej-ed by the blunted organs of seeing and hearing; and Dur¬ 
ward was only sensible that he was awake by the exertions 
wliich, sensible of the peril of his situation, he occasionally 
made to resist falling into a deep and dead sleep. Every 
now and then a strong consciousness of the risk of falling from 
or with his horse roused him to exertion and animation; but 
ere long his eyes again were dimmed by confused shades of 
all sorts of mingled colours, the moonlight landscape swam 
before them, and he was so mucli overcome with fatigue that 
the Count of Crevecoeur, observing his condition, was at 
length compelled to order two of his attendants, one on each 
rein of Durward’s bridle, in order to prevent any risk of his 
falling from his horse. 

When at length they reached the town of Landrecy, the 
count in compassion to the youth, who had now been in a 
great measure without sleep for three nights, allowed himself 


Quentin Durward 


375 


and his retinue a halt of four hours for rest and refreshment. 

Deep and sound were Quentin’s slumbers,, until they were 
broken by the sound of the count’s trumpet, and the cry of his 
fourriers and harbingers,^ ‘'Debout! debout! Ha! Messires, 
en route—en routeH '- Yet, unwelcomely early as the tones 
came, they awaked him a different being in strength and 
spirits from what he had fallen asleep. Confidence in himself 
and his fortunes returned with his reviving spirits and with 
the rising sun. He thought of his love no longer as a desperate 
and fantastic dream, but as a high and invigorating principle, 
to be cherished in his bosom, although he might never propose 
to himself, under all the difficulties by which he was beset, to 
bring it to any prosperous issue. “The pilot,” he reflected, 
“steers his bark by the polar star, although he never expects 
to become possessor of it; and the thoughts of Isabelle of 
Croye shall make me a worthy man-at-arms, though I may 
never see her more. When she hears that a Scottish soldier 
named .Quentin Durward distinguished himself in a well- 
fought field, or left his body on the breach of a disputed 
fortress, she will remember the companion of her journey, as 
one who did all in his power to avert the snares and misfor¬ 
tunes which beset it, and perhaps will honour his memory 
with a tear, his coffim with a garland.” 

In this manly mood of bearing his misfortune, Quentin 
felt himself more able to receive and reply to the jests of the 
Count of Crevecoeur, who passed several on his alleged 
eft'eminancy and incapacity of undergoing fatigue. The young 
Scot accommodated himiself so good-humouredly to the count’s 
raillery, and replied at once so happily and so respectfully, 
that the change of his tone and manner made obviously a more 
favourable impression on the count than he had entertained 
from his prisoner’s conduct during the preceding evening, 

'^Fourriers and harbingers. Officers whose duty it was to procure and make all 
arrangements for the lodging of people of high rank. In old French, herberge 
(whence our word harbour) meant lodging. 

^Debout! debout, etc. Arise! arise! gentlemen, it's time to be going. 






376 


QuentiV Durward 

when, rendered irritable b}’ the feelings of his situation, he 
was alternately moodily silent or fiercely argumentative. 

The veteran soldier began at length to take notice of his 
young companion as a pretty fellow of whom something might 
be made; and more than hinted to lum that, would he but 
resign his situation in the Archer Guard of France, he would 
undertake to have him enrolled in the household of the Duke 
of Burgundy in an honourable condition, and would himself 
take care of his advancement. And although Quentin, with 
suitable expressions of gratitude, declined this favour at pres¬ 
ent, until he should find out how far he had to complain of 
his originarpatron. King Louis, he, nevertheless, continued to 
remain on good terms with the Count of Crevecoeur; and, 
while his enthusiastic mode of thinking, and his foreign and 
idiomatical manner of expressing himself, often excited a smile 
on the grave cheek of the count, that smile had lost all that it 
had of sarcastic and bitter, and did not exceed the limits of 
good humour and good manners. 

Thus travelling on with much more harmony than on the 
preceding day, the little party came at last within two miles 
of fhe famous strong town of Peronne, near which the 
Duke of Burgundy’s army lay encamped, ready, as was sup¬ 
posed, to invade France; and in opposition to which Louis XL 
had himself assembled a strong force near St. Maxence, for 
the purpose of bringing to reason his over-powerful vassal. 

Peronne,^ situated upon a deep river, in a flat country, and 
surrounded by strong bulwarks and profound moats, was 
accounted in ancient, as in modern, times one of the strongest 
fortresses in France. The Count of Crevecoeur, his retinue, 
and his prisoner were approaching the fortress about the third 
hour after noon; when, riding through the pleasant glades of 
a large forest, which then covered the approach to the town 
on the east side, they were met by two men of rank, as 
\ ^ 

^PSronne. Indeed, though lying on an exposed and warlike frontier, it was 
never taken by an enemy, but preserved the proud name of Peronne la Pucelle, 
until the Duke of Wellington,, a great destroyer of that sort of reputation, took 
che place in the memorable advance upon Paris in 1815.— Scott. 


377 


Quentin Durward 

appeared from the number of their attendants,, dressed in the 
habits worn in time of peace; and who, to judge from the 
falcons which they carried on their wrists, and the number of 
spaniels and greyhounds led by their followers. Were engaged 
in the amusement of hawking. But on perceiving Crevecoeur, 
with whose appearance and liveries they were sufficiently inti¬ 
mate, they quitted the search which they were making for a 
heron along the banks of a long canal, and came galloping 
towards him. 

“News—news. Count of Crevecoeur!-” they cried both 
together; “will you give news or take news, or will you 
barter fairly?” 

“I would barter fairly, Messires,” said Crevecoeur, after 
saluting them courteously, “did I conceive you had any news 
of importance sufficient to make an equivalent for mine.” 

The two sportsmen smiled on each other; and the elder of 
the two, a fine baronial figure, with a dark countenance, 
marked with that sort of sadness which some physiognomists 
ascribe to a melancholy temperament, and some, as the Italian 
I statuary argued of the visage of Charles I., consider as pre- 
I dieting an unhappy death, turning to his companion, said, 

I “Crevecoeur has been in Brabant, the country of commerce, 
and he has learned all its artifices: he will be too hard for us 
if we drive a bargain.” 

“Messires,” said Crevecoeur, “the Duke ought in justice 
to have the first of my wares, as the seigneur takes his toll 
before open market begins. But tell me, are your news of a 
sad or a pleasant complexion?” 

The person whom he had particularly addressed was a 
lively-looking man, with an eye of great vivacity, which was 
corrected by an expression of reflection and gravity about the 
mouth and upper lip—the whole physiognomy marking a man 
who saw and judged rapidly, but was sage and slow in form¬ 
ing resolutions or in expressing opinions. This was the famous 
Knight of Hainault, son of Collart, or Nicholas de la Clite. 
known in history and amongst historians by the venerable 




378 


Quentin Durvvard 

name of Philip des Comines/ at this time close to the person 
of Duke Charles the Bold, and one of his most esteemed coun¬ 
sellors. He answered Crevecoeur’s question concerning the 
complexion of the news of which he and his companion, the 
Baron d’Hymbercourt,” were the depositaries. “They were,” 
he said, “like the colours of the rainbow, various in hue, as 
they might be viewed from different points, and placed against 
the black cloud or the fair sky. Such a rainbow was never 
seen in France or Flanders since that of Noah’s ark.” 

“]\iy tidings,” replied Crevecoeur, “are altogether like the 
comet—gloomy, wild, and terrible in themselves, yet to be 
accounted the forerunners of still greater and more dreadful 
evils which are to ensue.” 

“We must open our bales,” said Comines to his com¬ 
panion, “or our market will be forestalled by some newcomers, 
for ours are public news. In one word, Crevecoeur, listen 
and wonder—King Louis is at Peronne!” 

“What!” said the count in astonishment; “has the Duke 
retreated without a battle? and do you remain here in your 
dress of peace after the town is besieged by the French, for I 
cannot suppose it taken?” 

“No,, surely,” said D’Hymbercourt, “the banners of Bur¬ 
gundy have not gone back a foot; and still King Louis is 
here.” 

“Then Edward of England must have come over the seas 
with his bowmen,” said Crevecinir, “and, like his ancestors,, 
gained a second field of Poictiers.” 

“Not so,” said Comines. “Not a French banner has been 
borne down, not a sail spread from England, where Edward 
is too much amused among the wives of the citizens of London 
to think of playing the Black Prince. Hear the extraordinary 
truth. You know, when you left us, that the conference 
between the commissioners on the parts of France and 


^Philip des Cpmines. See Note 21 at end of the novel. 
^D’ Hymbercourt. See Note 22 at end of the novel. 


Quentin Durward 379 

Burgundy was broken up, without apparent chance of 
reconciliation?” 

“True; and we dreamt of nothing but war.” 

“What has followed has been indeed st> like a dream,” said 
Comines, “that I almost expect to wake and find it so. Only 
one day since, the Duke had in council protested so furiously 
against farther delay, that it was resolved to send a defiance 
to the King and march forward instantly into France. Toison 
d’Or, commissioned for the purpose, had put on his official 
dress, and had his foot in the stirrup to miount his horse, wdien 
lo! the French herald Montjoie rode into our camp. We 
thought of nothing else than that Louis had been beforehand 
w’ith our defiance; and began to consider how' much the Duke 
w'ould resent the advice which had prevented him from being 
the first to declare war. But a council being speedily assem¬ 
bled, wffiat was our w^onder wffien the herald informed us that 
Louis, King of France, w^as scarce an hour’s riding behind, 
intending to visit Charles, Duke of Burgundy, wuth a small 
retinue, in order that their dif¥erences might be settled at a 
personal interview’!” 

I “You surprise me, Messires,” said Crevecoeur; “and yet 
I vou surprise me less than you might have expected ; for, w’hen 
i I w’as last at Plessis-les-Tours, the all-trusted Cardinal Balue, 
offended at his m.aster, and Burgundian at heart, did hint to 
me, that he could so w’ork upon Louis’s peculiar foibles as to 
lead him to place him.self in such a position wuth regard to 
Burgundy that the Duke might have the terms of peace of his 
owm making. But I never suspected that so old a fox as Louis 
could have been induced to come into the trap of his owm 
accord. What said the Burgundian counsellors?” 

“As you may guess,” answered D’FIymbercourt; “talked 
much of faith to be observed and little of advantage to be 
obtained by such a visit; w’hile it was manifest they thought 
almost entirely of the last, and w’ere only anxious to find 
some w’ay to reconcile it wfith the necessary preservation of 
appearances.” ^ 





380 Quentin Durward 

“And what said the Duke?” continued the Count of 
Crevecoeur. 

“Spoke brief and bold, as usual,” replied Comines. “ ‘Which 
of you was it,’ life asked, ‘who witnessed the meeting of 
my cousin Louis and me after the battle of Montl’hery,^ when 
I was so thoughtless as to accompany him back within the 
intrenchments of Paris with half a score of attendants, and so 
put my person at the King’s mercy?’ I replied, that most ol 
us had been present, and none could ever forget the alarm 
which it had been his pleasure to give us. ‘Well,’ said the 
Duke, ‘you, blamed me for my folly, and I confessed to you 
that I had acted like a giddy-pated boy; and I am aware, too. 
that, my father of happy memory being then alive, my kins¬ 
man, Louis, would have had less advantage by seizing on my 
person than I might now have by securing his. But, neverthe¬ 
less, if my royal kinsman comes hither on the present occasion 
in the same singleness of heart under which I then acted, he 
shall be royally welcome. If it is meant by this appearance of 
confidence to circumvent and to blind me till he execute some 
of his politic schemes, by St. George of Burgundy, let him 
look to it!’ And so, having turned up his mustachios and 
stamped on the ground, he ordered lis all to get on our horses 
and receive so extraordinary a guest.” ^ 

* “And you met the King accordingly?” replied the Count 
of Crevecoeur. “Miracles have not ceased! How was he 
accompanied ?” 

“As slightly as might be,” answered D’Hymbercourt; “only 
a score or two of the Scottish Guard, and a few knights and 
gentlemen of his household, among whom his astrologer, Gale- 
otti, made the gayest figure.” 

“That fellow,” said Crevecoeur, “holds some dependence 
on the Cardinal Balue; I should not be surprised that he has 
had his share in determining the King to this step of doubtful 
policy. Any nobility of higher rank?” 

^Monil’hiry. See Note 23 .—Meeting of Louis and Charles after the Battle of 
Monti'hery. 


381 


Quentin Durward 

“There are Monsieur of Orleans and Dunois,” replied 
Comines. 

“I will have a rouse with Dunois,” said Crevecceur, “wag 
the world as it will. But we heard that both he and the duke 
had fallen into disgrace, and were in prison.” 

“They were both under arrest in the Castle of Loches, 
that delightful place of retirement for the French nobility,” 
said D’Hymbercourt; “but Louis has released them, in order 
to bring them with him, perhaps because he cared not to leave 
Orleans behind. For his other attendants, faith, I think his 
gossip, the hangman marshal, with two or three of his retinue, 
and Oliver, his barber, may be the most considerable; and the- 
whole bevy so poorly arrayed that, by my honour, the King 
•resembles most an old usurer going to collect desperate debts, 
attended by a body of catchpolls.” ^ 

“And where is he lodged?” said Crevecceur. » 

“Nay, that,” replied Comines, “is the most marvellous of 
all. Our duke offered to let the King’s Archer Guard have a 
gate of the town, and a bridge of boats over the Somme, and 
j to have assigned to Louis himself the adjoining house, belong- 

j ing to a wealthy burgess, Giles Orthen; but, in going thither, 

the King espied the banners of De Lau and Pencil de Riviere, 
.whom he had banished from France, and scared, as it would 
seem, with the thought of lodging so near refugees and mal¬ 
contents of his own making, he craved to be quartered in the 
Castle of Peronne, and there he hath his abode accordingly.” 

“Wh}", God ha’ mercy!” exclaimed Crevecceur, “this is 
not only venturing into the lion’s den, but thrusting his head 
into his very jaws. Nothing less than the very bottom of the. 
rat-trap would serve the crafty old politician!” 

“Nay,” said Comines, “D’Hymbercourt hath not told you 
the speech of Le Glorieux,^ which, in my mind, was the 
shrewdest opinion that was given.” 

^Catchpolls. Tax-collectors; compare poll-tax. 

^Le Glorieux. The jester of Charles of Burgundy, of whom more hereafter. 

— Scott. 





382 


Quentin Durward 

“And what said his most illustrious wisdom?” asked the 
count. 

“As the Duke,” replied Comines, “was hastily ordering 
some vessels and ornaments of plate and the like, to be pre¬ 
pared as presents for the King and his retinue,, by way of 
welcome on his arrival, ‘"1 rouble not thy small brain about it, 
my friend Charles,’ said Le Glorieux: ‘I will give thy cousin 
Louis a nobler and a fitter gift than thou canst, and that is my 
cap and bells, and my bauble ^ to boot; for, by the mass, he is 
a greater fool than I am for putting himself in thy power.’ 
‘But if I give him no reason to repent it, sirrah, how then? 
said the Duke. ‘Then, truly, Charles, thou shalt have cap 
and bauble thyself, as the greatest fool of the three of us.’ I 
promise you this knavish quip touched the Duke closely. I 
saw him change colour and bite his lip. And now our news 
are told, noble Crh'ecmur, and what think you they resemble ?” 

“A mine full-charged with gunpowder,” answered Creve- 
coeur, “to which, I fear, it is my fate to bring the kindled 
linstock." Your news and mine are like flax and fire, which 
cannot meet without bursting into flame, or like certain chemi¬ 
cal substances which cannot be mingled without an explosion. 
Friends—gentlemen, ride close b}^ my rein; and when I tell 
you what has chanced in the bishopric of Liege, I think you 
will be of opinion that King Louis might as safely have under¬ 
taken a pilgrimage to the infernal regions as this ill-timed visit 
to Peronne.” 

The two nobles drew up close on either hand of the count, 
and listened, with half-suppressed exclamations arm gestures 
of the deepest wonder and interest, to his account of the 
transactions at Liege and Schonwaldt. Quentin was then 
called forward, and examined and re-examined on the particu¬ 
lars of the bishop’s death, until at length he refused to answer 


^Bauble. The jester’s staff of office, described, page 410. 

^Linstock. A staff for holding a lighted match employed in firing cannon. 


383 


Quentin Durward 

any further interrogatories, not knowing wherefore they were 
asked, or what use might be made of his replies. 

They now reached the rich and level banks of the Somme, 
and the ancient walls of the little town of Peronne la Pucelle, 
and the deep green meadows adjoining, now whitened with 
the numerous tents of the Duke of Burgundy’s army, amount¬ 
ing to about fifteen thousand men. 







CHAPTER XXVL 


THE INTERVIEW 

When princes meet, astrologers may mark it 
An ominous conjunction, full of boding, 

Like that of Mars with Saturn. 

Old Play. 

One hardly knows whether to term it a privilege or aB 
penalty annexed to the quality of princes, that, in their inter- | 
course with each other, they are required, by the respect which Ij 
is due to their own rank and dignity, to regulate their feelings 1 
and expressions by a severe etiquette, which precludes all j 
violent and avow^ed display of passion, and which, but that | 
the whole world-are aware that this assumed complaisance is ! 
a matter of ceremony, might justly pass for profound dis- I 
simulation. It is no less certain, however, that the over- ' 
stepping of these bounds of ceremonial, for the purpose of j 
giving more direct vent to their angry passions, has the effect ? 
of compromising their dignity with the world in general, as 
was particularly noted when those distinguished rivals, Francis ; 
the First and the Emperor Charles,^ gave each other the lie j 
direct, and were desirous of deciding their differences hand to | 
hand, in single combat. 

Charles of Burgundy, the most hasty and impatient, nay, . 
the most imprudent prince of his time, found himself, never¬ 
theless, fettered within the magic circle which prescribed the 
most profound deference to Louis, as his suzerain and liege lord, 
who had deigned to confer upon him, a vassal of the crown, 
the distinguished honour of a personal visit. Dressed in his 
ducal mantle, and attended by his great officers and principal "j 

^Francis the First and the Emperor Charles. Francis I., King of France j 
(1515-47) and Charles V., Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (1519-58) were | 
at war almost continuously throughout the period of their reigns, 

31^1 


f. 





385 


Quentin Durward 

knights and nobles, he went in gallant cavalcade to receive 
Louis XL His retinue absolutely blazed with gold and silver; 
for the wealth of the court of England being exhausted by the 
\\ ars of ^ ork and Lancaster, and the expenditure of France 
limited by the economy of the sovereign, that of Burgundy 
was for the time the most magnificent in Europe. The 
cortege^ of Louis, on the contrary, was few in number, and 
comparatively mean in appearance, and the exterior of the 
King himself, in a threadbare cloak, with his wonted old high- 
crowned hat stuck full of images, rendered the contrast yet more 
striking; and as the Duke, richly attired with the coronet and 
I mantle of state, threw himself from his noble charger, and, 
kneeling on one knee, oflfered to hold the stirrup while Louis 
dismounted from his little ambling palfrey, the effect was 
almost grotesque. 

The greeting between the two potentates was, of course., 
as full of affected kindness and compliment as it w^as totally 
devoid of sincerity. But the temper of the Duke rendered it 
much more difficult for him to preserve the necessary appear¬ 
ances in voice, speech, and demeanour; while in the King 
every species of simulation and dissimulation seemed so much 
a part of his nature that those best acquainted with him could 
not have distinguished what was feigned from what was real. 

Perhaps the most accurate illustration, were it not 
unworthy two such high potentates, would be to suppose the 
King in the situation of a stranger, perfectly acquainted with 
the habits and dispositions of the canine race, who, for some 
purpose of his own, is desirous to make friends with a large 
and surly mastiff, that holds him in suspicion, and is disposed • 
to worry him. on the first symptoms either of diffidence or of 
umbrage. The mastiff growls internally, erects his bristles, 
shows his teeth, yet is ashamed to fly upon the intruder, who 
seems at the same time so kind and so confiding, and therefore 
the animal endures advances which are far from pacifying 
him, watching at the same time the slightest opportunity 

^Corlhge. Following. 






386 Quentin Durward 

which may justify him in his own eyes for seizing his friend 
by the throat. 

The King was no doubt sensible, from the altered voice, 
constrained manner,, and abrupt gestures of the Duke, that the 
game he had to play was delicate, and perhaps he more than 
once repented having ever taken it in hand. But repentance 
was too late, and all that remained for him was that inimit¬ 
able dexterity of management w^hich the King understood 
equally at least with any man that ever lived. 

The demeanour which Louis used towards the Duke was 
such as to resemble the kind overflowing of the heart in a 
moment of sincere reconciliation with an honoured and tried 
friend, from whom he had been estranged by temporary cir¬ 
cumstances now passed away, and forgotten as soon as 
removed. The King blamed himself for not having sooner 
taken the decisive step of convincing his kind and good kins¬ 
man, by such a mark of confidence as he was now bestowing, 
that the angry passages which had occurred betwixt them 
were nothing in his remembrance when weighed against the 
kindness which received him when an exile from France, and 
under the displeasure of the King his father. He spoke of the 
Good Duke of Burgundy, as Philip the father of Duke 
Charles was currently called, and remembered a thousand 
instances of his paternal kindness. 

“I think, cousin,” he said, “5'our father made little dif¬ 
ference in his affection betwixt you and me; for I remember, 
when by an accident I had bewildered myself in a hunting- 
party, I found the Good Duke upbraiding you with leaving 
me in the forest, as if you had been careless of the safety of an 
elder brother.” 

The Duke of Burgundy’s features were naturally harsh 
and severe, and when he attempted to smile, in polite acquies¬ 
cence to the truth of what the King told him, the grimace 
which he made was truly diabolical. 

“Prince of dissemblers,” he said in his secret soul, “would 




Quentin Durward 387 

that it stood with my honour to remind you how vou have 
requited all the benefits of our house!” 

^ “And then,” continued the King, “if the ties of consan- 
^ guinity and gratitude are not sufficient to bind us together, my 
fair cousin, we have those of spiritual relationship; for I am 
godfather to your fair daughter Mary, who is as dear to me 
I as one of my own maidens; and when the saints—their holy 
\ name be blessed!—sent me a little blossom which withered in 
I the course of three months, it was your princely father who 
held it at the font, and celebrated the ceremony of baptism 
with richer and prouder magnificence than Paris itself could 
have afforded. Never shall I forget the deep, the indelible 
impression which the generosity of Duke Philip, and yours, 
my dearest cousin, made upon the half-broken heart of the 
poor exile!” 

**Your Majesty,” said the Duke, compelling himself to 
make some reply, “acknowledged that slight obligation in 
! terms which overpaid all the display which Burgundy could 
make to show due sense of the honour you have done its 
: sovereign.” 

i “I remember the words you mean, fair cousin,” said the 
King, smiling; “I think they were., that in guerdon of the 
I benefit of that day, I, a poor wanderer, had nothing to offer 
save the persons of myself, of my wife, and of my child. Well, 
and I think I have indifferently well redeemed my pledge.” 

“I mean not to dispute what your Majesty is pleased to 
aver,” said the Duke; “but-” 

“But you ask,” said the King, interrupting him, “how my 
actions have accorded with my words. Marry thus: the body 
of m.y infant child Joachim rests in Burgundian earth; my 
own person I have this morning placed unreservedly in your 
power; and for that of my wife—truly, cousin, I think, con¬ 
sidering the period of time which has passed, you will scarce 
insist on my keeping my word in that particular. She was 
born on the day of the Blessed Annunciation^ (he crossed 

^Day of the Annunciation. March 25. 







388 Quentin Durward 

himself and muttered an Ora pro iiobis) y some fifty years 
since; but she is no farther distant than Rheims, and if you 
insist on my promise being fulfilled to the letter, she shall 
presently wait your pleasure.” 

Angry as the Duke of Burgundy was at the barefaced 
attempt of the King to assume towards him a tone of Kiend- 
ship and intimacy, he could not help laughing at the whimsical 
reply of that singular monarch, and his laugh was as dis¬ 
cordant as the abrupt tones of passion in which he often spoke. 
Having laughed longer and louder than was at that period, or 
would now be thought fitting the time and occasion, he 
answered in the same tone, bluntly declining the honour of 
the Queen’s company, but stating his willingness to accept 
that of the King’s eldest daughter, whose beauty, was 
celebrated. 

“I am happy, fair cousin,” said the King, wfith one of 
those dubious smiles of which he frequently made use, “that 
your gracious pleasure has not fixed on my younger daughter 
Joan. I should otherwise have had spear-breaking between 
you and my cousin of Orleans; and, had harm come of it, I 
must on either side have lost a kind friend and affectionate 
cousin.” 

“Nay—nay, my royal sovereign,” said Duke Charles, “the 
Duke of Orleans shall have no interruption from me in the 
path which he has chosen par amours. I he cause in which I 
couch my lance against Orleans must be fair and straight. 

Louis was far from taking amiss this brutal allusion to the 
personal deformity of the Princess Joan. On the contrary, he 
was rather pleased to find that the Duke was content to be 
amused with broad jests, in which he was himself a proficient, 
and which, according to the modern phrase, spared much 
sentimental hypocrisy. Accordingly, he speedily placed their 
intercourse on such a footing that Charles, though he felt it 
impossible to play the part of an affectionate and reconciled 
friend to a monarch whose ill offices he had so often encoun¬ 
tered, and whose sincerity on the present occasion he so 



389 


Quentin Durward 

strongly doubted, yet had no difficulty in acting the hearty 
landlord towards a facetious guest; and so the want of 
• reciprocity in kinder feelings between them was supplied by 
the tone of good fellowship which exists between two boon 
companions—a tone natural to the Duke from the frankness, 
and it might be added, the grossness, of his character, and to 
i Louis, because, though capable of assuming any mood of 
1 social intercourse, that which really suited him best was 
I mingled with grossness of ideas and caustic humour in 
I expression. 

I Both princes were happily able to preserve, during the 
period of a banquet at the town-house of Peronne, the same 
I kind of conversation, on which they met as on a neutral ground, 

I and which, as Louis easily perceived, was more available than 
any other to keep the Duke of Burgundy in that state of com¬ 
posure which seemed necessary to his own safety. 

' Yet he was alarmed to observe that the Duke had around 
him several of those French nobles, and those of the highest 
I rank and in situations of great trust and power, whom his 
own severity or injustice had driven into exile; and it was to 
secure himself from the possible effects of their resentment and 
revenge that (as already mentioned) he requested to be lodged 
in the castle or citadel of Peronne rather than in the town 
itself.^ This was readily granted by Duke Charles, with one 
of those grim smiles of which it was impossible to say whether 
it meant good or harm to the party whom it concerned. 

But when the King, expressing himself with as much 
delicacy as he could, and in the manner he thought best quali¬ 
fied to lull suspicion asleep, asked whether the Scottish Archers 
of his Guard might not maintain the custody of the Castle of 
Peronne during his residence there, in lieu of the gate of the 
town which the Duke had offered to their care, Charles 
replied, with his wonted sternness of voice and abruptness of 
manner, rendered more alarming by his habit when he spoke, 
of either turning up his mustachios or handling his sword or 

iTo be lodged, etc. See Note 24—Louis’s Suspicious Character. 




390 


Quentin Durward ^ i 

dagger, the last of which he used frequently to draw' a little 
way and then return to the sheath,—“St. Martin! No, my 
liege. You are in your vassal’s camp and city—so men call 
me in respect to your IMajestj^—mj^ castle and town are yours 
and my men are yours; so it is indifferent whether my men- 
at-arms or the Scottish Archers guard either the outer gate or 
defences of the castle. No, by St. George! Peronne is a 
virgin fortress; she shall not lose her reputation by any i 
neglect of mine. Maidens must be carefully watched, my J 
royal cousin, if we would have them continue to live in good 
fame.” ' 

“Surely, fair cousin, and I altogether agree with you,” | 
said the King, “I being in fact more interested in the reputa- i 
tion of the good little town than you are—Peronne being, as -- 
you know, fair cousin, one of those upon the same river 
Somme which, pledged to your father of happy memory for 
redemption of money, are liable to be redeemed upon repay¬ 
ment. And, to speak truth, coming, like an honest debtor, 
disposed to clear off my obligations of every kind, I have 
brought here a few sumpter mules loaded with silver for the 
redemption—enough to maintain even your princely and royal 
establishment, fair cousin, for the space of three years.” 

“I will not receive a penny of it,” said the Duke, twdrling 
his mustachios; “the day of redemption is past, my royal 
cousin; nor was there ever serious purpose that the right 
should be exercised, the cession of these towns being the sole 
recompense my father ever received from France when, in a 
happy hour for your family, he consented to forget the murder 
of my grandfather, and to exchange the alliance of England 
for that of your father.^ St. George! if he had not so acted, 
your royal self, far from having towns on the Somme, could 

* To exchange the alliance of England, etc. Jolm, Duke of Burgundy, was 
assassinated (1419) as he knelt at the feet of the young Dauphin, afterwards 
Charles VII. His son, Philip of Burgundy, signed a treaty (the treaty of Arras,— 
1435) with Charles, whereby he recognized Charles as King of France, on condi¬ 
tion that certain towns including Auxerre and Peronne should be ceded to him 
and that he should be released from all feudal homage, (his successors were not in¬ 
cluded in this exemption). The towns on the Somme, it was stipulated, might be 
bought back by France. 




391 


Quentin Durward 

scarce have kept those beyond the Loire. No; I will not 
render a stone of them, were I to receive for every stone so 
. rendered its weight in gold. I thank God, and the wisdom 
and valour of my ancestors, that the revenues of Burgundy, 

. though it be but a duchy, will maintain my state, even when 
a king is my guest, without obliging me to barter my heritage.”' 

“Well, fair cousin,” answered the King, with the same 
\ ^mild and placid manner as before, and unperturbed by the loud 
1 1 tone and violent gestures of the Duke, “I see that you are so 
good a friend to France that you are unwilling to part with 
aught that belongs to her. But we shall need some moderator 
in these affairs when we come to treat of them in council. 
What say j-ou to St. Paul?” 

“Neither St. Paul, nor St. Peter, nor e’er a saint in the 
calendar,” said the Duke of Burgundy, “shall preach me out 
of the possession of Peronne.” 

“Nay, but you mistake me,” said King Louis, smiling; “I 
■ mean Louis de Luxembourg, our trusty constable, the Count 
of St. Paul. Ah! St. Mary of Embrun! we lack but his head 
at our conference! the best head in France, and the most useful 
to the restoration of perfect harmony betwixt us.” 

“By St. George of Burgundy!” said the Duke, “I marvel 
to hear your Majesty talk thus of a man false and perjured 
both to France and Burgundy—one who hath ever endea¬ 
voured to fan into a flame our frequent differences, and that 
with the purpose of giving himself the airs of a mediator. I 
swear by the order I wear, that his marshes shall not be long 
a resource for him 1” 

“Be not so warm, cousin,” replied the King, smiling, and 
speaking under his breath; “when I wished for the constable’s 
as a means of ending the settlement of our trifling dif¬ 
ferences, I had no desire for his body, which might remain at 
St. Quentin’s with much convenience.” 

“Ho! ho! I take your meaning, my royal cousin,” said 
Charles, with the same dissonant laugh which some other of 
the King’s coarse pleasantries had extorted, and. added, stamp- 





392 


Quentin Durward 

ing with his^ heel on the ground, “I allow, in that sense, the 
head of the constable might be useful at Peronne.” 

These and other discourses, by which the King mixed hints 
at serious affairs amid matters of mirth and amusement, did 
not follow each other consecutively; but were adroitly intro¬ 
duced during the time of the banquet at the hotel de ville^ 
during a subsequent interview in the Duke’s own apartments, 
and, in short, as occasion seemed to render the introduction of 
such delicate subjects easy and natural. 

Indeed, however rashly Louis had placed himself in a risk 
which the Duke’s fiery temper,, and the mutual subjects of 
exasperated enmity which subsisted betwixt them, rendered 
of doubtful and perilous issue, never pilot on an unknown 
coast conducted himself with more firmness and prudence. 
He seemed to sound, with the utmost address and precision, 
the depths and shallows of his rival’s mind and temper, and 
manifested neither doubt nor fear when the result , of his 
experiments discovered much more of sunken rocks and of 
dangerous shoals than of safe anchorage. 

At length a day closed which must have been a wearisome 
one to Louis, from the constant exertion, vigilance, precaution, 
and attention which his situation required, as it was a day of 
constraint to the Duke, from the necessity of suppressing the 
violent feelings to which he was in the general habit of giving 
uncontrolled vent. 

No sooner had the latter retired into his own apartment, 
after he had taken a formal leave of the King for the night, 
than he gave way to the explosion of passion which he had so 
long suppressed; and many an oath and abusive epithet,, as his 
jester, Le Glorieux, said, “fell that night upon heads which 
they were never coined for,” his domestics reaping the benefit 
of that hoard of injurious language which he could not in 
decency bestow on his royal guest, even in his absence, and 
which was yet become too great to be altogether suppressed. 
The jests of the clown had some effect in tranquillising the 


HSiel^e ville. The city hall. 



393 


Quentin Durward 

Duke’s angry mood; he laughed loudly, threw the jester a 
piece of gold, caused himself to be disrobed in tranquillity, 
swallowed a deep cup of wine and spices, went to bed, and 
I slept soundly. 

The cotichee^ of King Louis is more worthy of notice than 
that of Charles; for the violent expression of exasperated and 
^ headlong passion, as indeed it belongs more to the brutal than 
the intelligent part of our nature, has little to interest us in 
comparison to the deep workings of a vigorous and powerful 
mind. 

Louis was escorted to the lodgings he had chosen in the 
castle,, or citadel, of Peronne by the chamberlains and harbin¬ 
gers of the Duke of Burgundy, and received at the entrance 
by a strong guard of archers and men-at-arms. 

As he descended from his horse to cross the drawbridge, 
over a moat of unusual width and depth, he looked on the 
sentinels, and observed to Comines, who accompanied him, 
with other Burgundian nobles, “They wear St. Andrew’s 
crosses, but not those of my. Scottish Archers.” 

“You will find them as ready to die in your defence, sire,” 
said the Burgundian, whose sagacious ear had detected in the 
King’s tone of speech a feeling which doubtless Louis would 
have concealed if he could. “They wear the St. Andrew’s 
cross as the appendage of the collar of the Golden Fleece, my 
master the Duke of Burgundy’s order.” 

“Do I not know it?” said Louis, showing the collar which 
he himself wore in compliment to his host. “It is one of the 
dear bonds of fraternity which exist between my kind brother 
and myself. We are brothers in chivalry, as in spiritual 
relationship—cousins by birth, and friends by every tie of 
kind feeling and good neighbourhood. No farther than the 
base-court,^ my noble lords and gentlemen! I can permit your 
attendance no farther; 5'ou have done me enough of grace. 

iCouchie. A reception held just before retiring. 

^Base-court. ' A secondary or inferior court yard at the rear of the structure. 





394 Quentin Durward j 

“We were charged by the Duke,” said D’Hymbercourt, j 
“to bring your Majesty to your lodging. We trust your • 
Majesty will permit us to obey our master’s command.” | 

“In this small matter,” said the King, “I trust you will 
allow my command to outweigh his, even with you his liege 
subjects. I am something indisposed, my lords—something 
fatigued. Great pleasure hath its toils as well as great pain. 

I trust to enjoy your society better to-morrow. And yours 
too. Seignior Philip of Comines. I am told you are the 
annalist of the time; we that desire to have a name in history 
must speak you fair, for men say your pen hath a sharp point, 
when you will. Good-night, my lords and gentles, to all and 
each of you.” 

The lords of Burgundy retired, much pleased with the 
grace of Louis’s manner and the artful distribution of his 
attentions; and the King was left with only one or two of his 
own personal followers, under the archway of the base-court 
of the Castle of Peronne, looking on the high tower which 
occupied one of the angles, being in fact the donjon, or 
principal keep, of the place. This tall, dark, massive building 
was seen clearly by the same moon which was lighting Quen¬ 
tin Durward betwixt Charleroi and Peronne, which, as the 
reader is aware, shone with peculiar lustre. The great keep 
was in form nearly resembling the White Tower in the 
citadel of London, but still more ancient in its architecture, 
deriving its date, as was affirmed, from the days of Charle¬ 
magne. The walls were of a tremendous thickness, the 
windows very small, and grated with bars of iron, and the 
huge clumsy bulk of the building cast a dark and portentous 
shadow over the whole of the courtyard. 

“I am not to be lodged thereT the King said, with a 
shudder that had something in it ominous. 

“No,” replied the grey-headed seneschal, who attended 
upon him unbonneted. “God forbid! Your Majesty’s apart- I 
ments are prepared in these lower buildings which are hard 



395 


Quentin Durward 

by, and in which King John slept two nights before the battle 
of Poictiers.” ^ 

“Hum—that is no lucky omen neither,” muttered the 
King; “hut what of the tower, my old friend? and why 
should you desire of Heaven that I may not be there lodged?” 

“Nay, my gracious liege,” said the seneschal, “I know no 
: evil of the tower at all—only that the sentinels say lights are 
seen, and strange noises heard, in it at night; and there are 
reasons why that may be the case, for anciently it was used as 
a state prison, and there are many tales of deeds which have 
been done in it.” 

Louis asked no farther questions; for no man was more 
bound than he to respect the secrets of a prison-house. At the 
door of the apartments destined for his use, which, though of 
later date than the tower, were still both ancient and gloomy, 
stood a small party of the Scottish Guard, which the Duke, 
although he declined to concede the point to Louis, had 
ordered to be introduced, so as to be near the person of their 
master. The faithful Lord Crawford was at their head. 

“Crawford—my honest and faithful Crawford,” said the 
King, “where hast thou been to-day? Are the lords of Bur¬ 
gundy so Inhospitable as to neglect one of the bravest and most 
noble gentlemen that ever trode a court ? I saw you not at the 
banquet.” 

“I declined it, my liege,” said Crawford. Times are 
changed with me. The day has been that I could have ven¬ 
tured a carouse with the best man in Burgundy, and that in 
the juice of his own grape; but a matter of four pints now 
flusters me, and I think it concerns your Majesty’s service to 
set in this an example to my callants. 

“Thou art ever prudent,” said the King; “but surely your 

.. toil is the less when you have so few men to command? and a 
^time of festivity requires not so severe self-denial on your part 
as a time of danger.” 

1 Battle of Poictiers. King John of France was defeated here by the English 
under Edward, the Black Prince, in 1356. 





396 


Quentin Durward 

“If I have few men to command,” said Crawford, “I have 
the more need to keep the knaves in fitting condition; and 
whether this business be like to end in feasting or fighting, 
God and your Majesty know better than old John of 
Crawford.” ^ 

“You surely do not apprehend any danger?” said the 
King, hastily, yet in a whisper. 

“Not I,” answered Crawford. “I wish I did; for, as old 
Earl Tineman ^ used to say, apprehended dangers may be 
always defended dangers. The word for the night, if your 
Majesty pleases?” 

“Let it be ‘Burgundy,’ in honor of our host and of a 
liquor that you love, Crawford.” 

“I will quarrel with neither duke nor drink so called,” 
said Crawford, “provided alwaj'S that both be sound. A good 
night to your Majesty!” 

“A good night, my trusty Scot,” said the King, and passed 
on to his apartments. 

At the door of his bedroom Le Balafre was placed sentinel. 
“Follow me hither,” said the King, as he passed him ; and the 
archer accordingly, like a piece of machinery put in motion by 
an artist, strode after him into the apartment, and remained 
there fixed, silent, and motionless, attending the royal command. 

“Have 50U heard from that wandering paladin, your 
nephew?” said the King; “for he hath been lost to us since, 
like a young knight who had set out upon his first adventures, 
he sent us home two prisoners, as the first-fruits of his chivalry.” 

“My lord, I heard something of that,” said Balafre; “and 
I hope your Majesty will believe that, if he hath acted wrong¬ 
fully, it was in no shape by my precept or example, since I 
never was so bold as to unhorse any of your Majesty’s most 
illustrious house, better knowing my own condition, and-” 

“Be silent on that point,” said the King; “your nephew 
did his duty in the matter.” 

“There indeed,” continued Balafre, “he had the cue from 


^Earl Tineman. An Earl of Douglas, so called. 





Quentin Durward 397 

. me. ‘Quentin,’ said I to him, ‘whatever com^s of it, remember 
you belong to the Scottish Archer Guard, and do your duty 
whatever comes on’t.’ ” 

“I guessed he had some such exquisite instructor,” said 
Louis; “but it concerns me that you answer my first question. 
Have you heard of your nephew of late? Stand aback, my 
masters,” he added, addressing the gentlemen of his chamber, 
i “for this concerneth no ears but mine.” 

I “Surely, please your Majesty,” said Balafre, “I have seen 

this verv evening the groom Chariot, whom my kinsman 
! despatched from Liege, or some castle of the bishop’s which is 
near it, and where he hath lodged the Ladies of Croye in 
safety.” 

“Now Our Lady of Heaven be praised for it! said the 
King. “Art thou sure of it?—sure of the good news?” 

“As sure as I can be of aught,” said Le Balafre. The 
fellow, I think, hath letters for your Majesty from the Ladies 
of Croye.” 

“Haste to get them,” said the King. Give thy harque- 
I buss to one of these knaves—to Oliver—to any one. Now 

i Our Lady of Embrun be praised! and silver shall be the 

screen that surrounds her high altar!” 

Louis, in this fit of gratitude and devotion, doffed, as 
usual, his hat, selected from the figures with which it was 
garnished that which represented his favourite image of the 
Virgin, placed it on the table, and, kneeling down, repeated 
reverently the vow he had made. 

The groom, being the first messenger whom Durward had 
despatched from Schonwaldt, was now introduced with his 
letters. They were addressed to the King by the Ladies of 
Croye, and barely thanked him in very cold terms for his 
courtesy while at his court, and something more warmly, for 
having permitted them to retire, and sent them in safety from 
his dominions, expressions at which Louis laughed very 
- heartily, instead of resenting them. He then demanded ot 
Chariot, with obvious interest, whether they had not sustained 




398 


Quentin Durward 

spme alarm or attack upon the road ? Chariot, a stupid fellow, 
and selected for that quality, gave a very confused account of 
the affray in which his companion, the Gascon, had been 
killed, but knew of no other. Again Louis demanded of him, 
minutely and particularly, the route which the party had 
taken to Liege; and seemed much interested when he was 
informed, in reply, that they had, upon approaching Namur, 
kept the more direct road to Liege, upon the right bank of the 
Maes, instead of the left bank, as recommended in their route. 
The King then ordered the man a small present and dismissed 
him, disguising the anxiety he had expressed, as if it only con¬ 
cerned the safety of the Ladies of Croye. 

Yet the news, though they inferred the failure of one of 
his own favourite plans., seemed to imply mor'e internal satis¬ 
faction on the King’s part than he would have probably 
indicated in a case of brilliant success. He sighed like one 
whose breast has been relieved from a heavy burden, muttered 
his devotional acknowledgments with an air of deep sanctity, 
raised up his eyes, and hastened to adjust newer and surer 
schemes of ambition. 

With such purpose, Louis ordered the attendance of his 
astrologer, Martius Galeotti, who appeared with his usual air 
of assumed dignity, yet not without a shade of uncertainty on 
his brow, as if he had doubted the King’s kind reception. It 
was, however, favourable, even beyond the warmest which he 
had ever met with at any former interview. Louis termed him 
his friend, his father in the sciences, the glass by which a king 
should look into distant futurity, and concluded by thrusting 
on his finger a ring of very considerable value. Galeotti, not 
aware of the circumstances which had thus suddenly raised 
his character in the estimation of Louis., yet understood his 
own profession too well to let that ignorance be seen. He 
received with grave modesty the praises of Louis, which he 
contended were only due to the nobleness of the science which 
he practised, a science the rather the more deserving of admira- ‘ 
tion on account of its working miracles through means of so 



399 


Quentin Durwaru 

■feeble an agent as himself; and he and the King took leave, 
for once much satisfied -wnth each other. 

On the astrologer’s departure, Louis threw himself into a 
chair, and appearing much exhausted, dismissed the rest of his 
attendants, excepting Oliver alone, who, creeping around with 
gentle assiduity and noiseless step, assisted him in the task of 
preparing for repose. 

While he received this assistance, the King, unlike to his 
wont, was so silent and passive, that his attendant was struck 
by the unusual change in his deportment. The worst minds 
have often something of good principle in them; banditti show 
fidelity to their captain, and sometimes a protected and pro¬ 
moted favourite has felt a gleam of sincere interest in the 
monarch to whom he owed his greatness., Oliver le Diable, le 
Mauvais, or by whatever other name he was called expressive 
of his evil propensities, was nevertheless, scarcely so completely 
identified with Satan as not to feel some touch of grateful 
feeling for his master in this singular condition,, when, as it 
seemed, his fate was deeply interested, and his strength seemed 
to be exhausted. After for a short time rendering to the King 
in silence the usual services paid by a servant to his master at 
the toilet, the attendant was at length tempted to say, with the 
freedom which his sovereign’s indulgence had permitted him 
*n such circumstances, “ The-dieu} sire, you seem as if you 
had lost a battle; and yet I, who was near your Majesty 
during this whole day, never knew you fight a field so 
gallantly.” 

“A field!” said King Louis, looking up, and assuming his 
wonted causticity of tone and manner; “Fasques-dieu, my 
friend Oliver, say I have kept the arena in a bull-fight; for a 
blinder, and more stubborn, untameable, uncontrollable brute, 
than our cousin of Burgundy, never existed, save in the shape 
of a Murcian bull," trained for the bull-feasts. Well, let it 
pass. I dodged him bravely. But, Oliver rejoice with me 


^Tele-dieu. God’s head. 

2A Murcian bull. Murcia is a province in Spain. 




400 


Quentin Durward 

that my plans in Flanders have not taken effect, whether as 
concerning those two rambling Princesses of Croye, or in 
Liege—you understand me?” 

“In faith, I do not, sire,” replied Oliver; “it is impossible 
for me to congratulate your Majesty on the failure of your 
favourite schemes, unless you tell me some reason for the 
change in j’^our own wishes and views. 

“Nay,”answered the King,“there is no change in either, in 
a general view. But, Pasques-dieu, my friend, I have this day 
learned more of Duke Charles than I before knew. When he 
was Count de Charalois, in the time of the old Duke Philip 
and the banished Dauphin of France, we drank, and hunted, 
and rambled together, and many a wild adventure we have 
had. And in those days I had a decided advantage over him, 
like that which a strong spirit naturally assumes over a weak 
one. But he has since changed—has become a dogged, daring, 
assuming, disputatious dogmatist, who nourishes an obvious 
wish to drive matters to extremities, while he thinks he has the 
game in his own hands. I was compelled to glide as gently 
away from each offensive topic as if I touched red-hot iron.,’ I 
did but hint at the possibility of those erratic Countesses of 
Croye, ere they attained Liege—for thither I frankly con¬ 
fessed that to the best of my belief, they were gone—falling 
into the hands of some wild snapper upon the frontiers', and, 
Pasques-dieu ! you would have thought I had spoken of 
sacrilege. It is needless to tell you what he said, and quite 
enough to say, that I would have held my head’s safety very 
insecure, if, in that moment, accounts had been brought of the 
success of thy friend, William with the Beard, in his and thy 
honest scheme of bettering himself by marriage.” 

“No friend of niine, if it please your Majesty,” said 
Oliver; “neither friend nor plan of mine.” 

“True, Oliver,” answered the King; “thy plan had not 
been to wed, but to shave, such a bridegroom. Well, thou 
didst wish her as bad a one, when thou didst modestly hint at 
thyself. However, Oliver, lucky the man who has her not; 




Quentin Durward 


401 


for hang, draw, and quarter^ were the most gentle words 
I which my gentle cousin spoke of liim who should wed the 
young countess, his vassal, without his most ducal permission.” 

“And he is,~'doubtless, as jealous of any disturbances in the 
I good town of Liege?” asked the favourite.- 

“As much or much more so,” replied the king, “as your 
jl understanding may easily anticipate; but, ever since I resolved 
\ on coming hither, my messengers have been in Liege, to repress, 
for the present, every movement to insurrection ; and my very 
busy and bustling friends,, Rouslaer and Pavilion, have orders 
to be quiet as a mouse until this happy meeting between my 
cousin and me is over.” 

“Judging, then, from your Majesty’s account,” said Oliver 
drily, “the utmost to be hoped from this meeting is, that it 
should not make your condition worse? Surely this is like the 
crane that thrust her head into the fox’s mouth, and was glad 
to thank her good fortune that it was not bitten off. Yet 
your Majesty seemed deeply obliged even now to the sage 
philosopher who encouraged you to play so hopeful a game.” 

“No game,” said the King sharply, “is to be despaired of 
until it is lost, and that I have no reason to expect it will be in 
my own case. On the contrary, if nothing occurs to stir the 
rage of this vindictive madman, I am sure of victory; and 
surely, I am not a little obliged to the skill which selected for 
my agent, as the conductor of the Ladles of Croye, a youth 
whose horoscope so far corresponded with mine, that he hath 
saved me frcnn danger, even by the disobedience of my own 
commands, and taking the route which avoided De la March’s 
ambuscade.” 

“Your Majesty,” said Oliver, “may find many agents who 
will serve you on the terms of acting rather after their own 
pleasure than your instructions.” 

“Nay, nay, Oliver,” said Louis impatiently, “the heathen 
poet speaks of vota diis exaudita malignis^ —wishes, that is, 

J Hang, draw, and quarter. The bodies of executed traitors were often treated 
thus ferociously in the Middle Ages. 

Wota diis, etc. Vows heard by malignant deities. 






402 


Quentin Durward 


which the saints grant to us in their wrath; and such, in the 
circumstances, would have been the success of William de la 
March’s exploit, had it taken place about this time, and while 
I am in the power of this Duke of Burgundy. And this my 
own art foresaw—fortified by that of Galeotti; that is, I fore¬ 
saw not the miscarriage of De la March’s undertaking, but I 
foresaw that the expedition of yonder Scottish archer should 
end happily for me. And such has been the issue, though in 
a manner different from what I expected; for the stars, 
though they foretell general results, are yet silent on the 
means by which-such are accomplished, being often the very 
reverse of what we expect, or even desire. But why talk I 
of these mysteries to thee, Oliver, who art in so far worse than 
the very devil, who is thy namesake, since he believes and 
trembles; whereas thou art an infidel both to religion and to 
science, and wilt remain so till thine own destiny is accom¬ 
plished, which, as thy horoscope and physiognomy alike assure 
me, will be by the intervention of the gallows?” 

“And if it indeed shall be so,” said Oliver, in a resigned , 
tone of voice, “it will be so ordered, because I was too grateful 
a servant to hesitate at executing the commands of my royal 
master.” 

Louis burst into his usual sardonic laugh. “Thou hast 
broke thy lance on me fairly, Oliver; and, by Our Lady, thou 
art right, for I defied thee to it. But, prithee, tell me in 
sadness, dost thou discover anything in these men’s measures 
tow^ards us, wLich may argue any suspicion of ill usage?” 


1 


“Aly liege,” replied Oliver, ‘Vour Majesty and yonder 
learned philosopher look for augury to the stars and heavenly 
host; I am an earthly reptile, and consider but the things con¬ 
nected with my vocation. But, methinks, there is a lack of 
that earnest and precise attention on your Majesty, which men 
show to a welcome guest of a degree so far above them. The 
Duke, to-night, pleaded weariness, and saw" jmur Majesty not 
farther than to the street, leaving to the officers of his house¬ 
hold the task of conveying you to your lodgings. The rooms 



Quentin Durward 


403 


here are hastily and carelessly fitted up: the tapestry is hung 
up awry; and in one of the pieces, as you may observe, the 
figures are reversed and stand on their heads, while the trees 
grow with their roots uppermost.” 

“Pshaw! accident and the effect of hurry,” said the King. 
“When did you ever know me concerned about such trifles as 
these?” 

“Not on their own account are they worth ^notice,” said 
Oliver; “but as intimating the degree of esteem in which the 
officers of the Duke’s household observe your Grace to be held 
by him. Believe me, that had his desire seemed sincere that 
your reception should be in all points marked by scrupulous 
attention, the zeal of his people would have made minutes do 
the work of days. And when,” he added, pointing to the 
basin and ewer,, “was the furniture of your Majesty’s toilet of 
other substance than silver?” 

“Nay,” said the King, with a constrained smile, “that last 
remark upon the shaving utensils, Oliver, is too much in the 
style of thine own peculiar occupation to be combated by any 
one. True it is, that when I was only a refugee and an exile, 
I was served upon gold plate by order of the same Charles, 
who accounted silver too mean for the Dauphin, though he 
seems to hold that metal too rich for the King of France. 
Well, Oliver, we will to bed. Our resolution has been made 
and executed; there is nothing to be done but to play manfully 
the game on which we have entered. I know that my cousin 
of Burgundy, like other wild bulls, shuts his eyes when he 
begins his career. I have but to watch that moment, like one 
of the tauridors whom we saw at Burgos,^ and his impetuosity- 
places him at my mercy.” 

^Tauridors, etc. Toreadors, or bull-fighters, “whom we saw at Burgos” in 
Spain. 



V 





CHAPTER XXVIL 


THE EXPLOSION 

’Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all, 

When to the startled eye the sudden glance 
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud. 

Thomson’s Summer. 

The preceding chapter, agreeable to its title, was designed 
as a retrospect, which might enable the reader fully to under¬ 
stand the terms upon which the King of France and the Duke 
of Burgundy stood together, when the former, moved, partly 
perhaps by his belief in astrology, which was represented as : 
favourable to the issue of such a measure, and in a great 
measure doubtless by the conscious superiority of his own 
powers of mind over those of Charles, had adopted the extraor¬ 
dinary, and upon any other ground altogether inexplicable, , 
resolution of committing his person to the faith of a fierce and 
exasperated enemy—a resolution also the more rash and unac¬ 
countable, as there were various examples in that stormy time 
to show, that safe-conducts, however solemnly plighted, had 
proved no assurance for those in whose favour they were con¬ 
ceived ; and indeed the murder of the Duke’s grandfather, at ^ 
the bridge of Montereau, in, presence of the father of Louis, - 
and at an interview solemnly agreed upon for the establish¬ 
ment of peace and amnesty, was a horrible precedent, should 
the Duke be disposed to resort to it. 

But the temper of Charles, though rough, fierce, headlong, | 
and unyielding, was not, unless in the full tide of passion, ] 
faithless or ungenerous, faults which usually belong to colder 
dispositions. He was at no pains to show the King more 
courtesy than the laws of hospitality positively demanded ; but, 


404 





Quentin Durward . 405 

on the other hand, he evinced no purpose of overleaping their 
sacred barriers. 

On the following morning after the King’s arrival, there 
was 'a general muster of the troops of the Duke of Burgundy, 
which were so numerous and so excellently appointed, that, 
perhaps, he was not sorry to have an opportunity of displaying 
them before his great rival. Indeed, while he paid the neces¬ 
sary compliment of a vassal to his suzerain, in declaring that 
these troops were the King’s, and not his own, the curl of his 
upper lip and the proud glance of his eye intimated his con¬ 
sciousness that the words he used were but empty compliment, 
and that his fine army, at his own unlimited disposal, was as 
ready to march against Paris as in any other direction. It 
must have added to Louis’s mortification, that he recognised, 
as forming part of this host, many banners of French nobility, 
not only of Normandy and Bretagne, but of provinces more 
immediately subjected to his own authority, who from various 
causes of discontent, had joined and made common cause with 
the Duke of Burgundy. 

True to his character, however, Louis seemed to take little 
notice of these malcontents, while, in fact, he was revolving in 
his mind the various means by which it might be possible to 
detach them from the banners of Burgundy and bring them 
back to his own, and resolved for that purpose, that he would 
cause those to whom he attached the greatest importance to be 
secretly sounded by Oliver and other agents. 

He himself laboured diligently, but at the same time cau¬ 
tiously, to make interest with the Duke’s chief officers and 
advisers, employing for that purpose' the usual means of 
familiar and frequent notice, adroit flattery, and liberal pres¬ 
ents ; not, as he represented, to alienate their faithful servicp 
from their noble master, but that they might lend their aid in 
preserving, peace betwixt France and Burgundy—an end so 
excellent in itself, and so obviously tending to the welfare of 
both countries, and of the reigning princes of either.^ ■ 

The notice of so great and so wise a king was in itself a 





406 


Quentin Durward 

mighty bribe; promises did much, and direct gifts, which the 
customs of the time permitted the Burgundian courtiers to 
accept without scruple, did still more. During a boar hunt in 
the forest, while the Duke, eager always'upon the immediate 
object, whether business or pleasure, gave himself entirely up 
to the ardour of the chase, Louis, unrestrained by his presence, 
sought and found the means of speaking secretly and separately 
to many of those who were reported to have most interest with 
Charles, among whom D’Hymbercourt and Comines were not 
forgotten; nor did he fail to mix up the advances which he 
made towards those two distinguished persons with praises of 
the valour and military skill of the first, and of the profound 
sagacity and literary talents of the future historian of the 
period. 

Such an opportunity of personally conciliating, or, if the 
reader pleases,, corrupting, the ministers of Charles, was per¬ 
haps what the King had proposed to himself as a principal 
object of his visit, even if his art should fail to cajole the Duke 
himself. The connexion betwixt France and Burgundy was 
so close, that most of the nobles belonging to the latter country 
had hopes or actual interests connected with the former, which 
the favour of Louis could advance or his personal displeasure 
destroy. Formed for this and every other species of intrigue, 
liberal to profusion when it was necessary to advance his plans, 
and skilful in putting the most plausible colour upon his pro¬ 
posals and presents, the King contrived to reconcile the spirit 
of the proud to their profit, and to hold out to the real or pre¬ 
tended patriot the good of both France and Burgundy as the 
ostensible motive; whilst the party’s own private interest, like 
the concealed wheel of some machine, worked not the less 
powerfully that its operations were kept out of sight. For 
each man he had a suitable bait and a proper mode of present¬ 
ing it: he poured the guerdon into the sleeve of those who 
were too proud to extend their hand, and trusted that his 
bounty, though it descended like the dew without noise and 
imperceptibly, would not fail to produce, in due season, a 



407 


Quentin Durward 

plentiful crop of goodwill at least, perhaps of good offices, to 
the donor. In fine, although he had been long paving the way 
by his ministers for an establishment of such an interest in the 
court of Burgundy as should be advantageous to the interests 
of France, Louis’s own personal exertions, directed doubtless 
by the information of which he was previously possessed,, did 
more to accomplish that object in a few hours than his agents 
had effected in years of negotiation. 

One man alone the King missed whom he had been par¬ 
ticularly desirous of conciliating, and that was the Count de 
Crevecoeur, whose firmness, during his conduct as envoy at 
Plessis, far from exciting Louis’s resentment, had been viewed 
as a reason for making him his own if possible. He was not 
particularly gratified when he learnt chat the count, at the 
head of an hundred lances, was gone towards the frontiers of 
Brabant to assist the bishop, in case of necessity, againsts 
William de la March and his discontented subjects; but he 
consoled himself that the appearance of this force, joined with 
the directions which he had sent by faithful messengers, would 
serve to prevent any premature disturbances in that country, 
the breaking out of which might, he foresaw, render his present 
situation very precarious. 

The court upon this occasion dined in the forest when the 
hour of noon arrived, as was common in those great hunting 
parties; an arrangement at this time particularly agreeable to 
the Duke, desirous as he was to abridge that ceremonious and 
deferential solemnity with which he was otherwise under the 
necessity of receiving King Louis. In fact, the King s 
knowledge of human nature had in one particular misled 
him on this remarkable 'occasion. He thought that the 
Duke would have been inexpressibly flattered to have received 
such a mark of condescension and confidence from his liege 
lord; but he forgot that the dependence of his dukedom upon 
thd crown of France was privately the subject of galling 
mortification to a prince so powerful, so wealthy, and so proud 
as Charles., whose aim it certainly was to establish an inde- 




408 


Quentin Durward 

pendent kingdom. The presence of the King at the court of 
the Duke of Burgundy imposed on that prince the necessity 
of exhibiting himself in the subordinate character of a vassal, 
and of discharging many rites of feudal observance and defer¬ 
ence, which, to one of his haughty disposition, resembled 
derogation from the character of a sovereign prince, which on 
all occasions he affected as far as possible to sustain. 

But although it was possible to avoid much ceremony by 
having the dinner upon the green turf, with sound of bugles, 
broaching of barrels, and all the freedom of a sylvan meal, it 
was necessary that the evening repast should, even for that 
very reason, be held with more than usual solemnity. 

Previous orders for this purpose had been given, and, upon 
returning to Peronne, King Louis found a banquet prepared 
with such a profusion of splendour and magnificence, as 
became the wealth of his formidable vassal, possessed as he was 
of almost all the Low Countries,^ then the richest portion of 
Europe. At the head of the long board, which groaned under 
plate of gold and silver, filled to profusion with the most 
exquisite dainties, sat the Duke, and on his right hand, upon a 
seat more elevated than his own, was placed his royal guest. 
Behind him stood on one side the son of the Duke of Gueldres, 
who officiated as his grand carver, on the other Le Glorieux, 
his jester, without whom he seldom stirred; for, like most 
men of his hasty and coarse character, Charles carried to 
extremity the general taste of that age for court fools and 
jesters—experiencing that pleasure in their display of eccentri¬ 
city and mental Inhumanity which his more acute, but not 
more benevolent, rival loved better to extract from marking 
the imperfections of humanity in its nobler specimens, and 
finding subject for mirth in the “fears of the brave and follies 
of the wise.” And, indeed, if the anecdote related by Bran- 
tome” be true, that a court fool, having overheard Louis, in 
one of his agonies of repentant devotion, confess his accession 


^The Low Countries. The Netherlands. 
^Brantdme. A French chronicler. 




409 


Quentin Durward 

to the poisoning of his brother, Henry, Count of Guyenne, 
divulged it next day at dinner before the assembled court, that 
j monarch might be supposed rather more than satisfied wdth 
the pleasantries of professed jesters for the rest of his life. 

But, on the present occasion, Louis neglected not to take 
notice of the favourite buffoon of the Duke, and to applaud 
his repartees; which he did the rather that he thought he saw 
that the folly of Le Glorieux, however grossly it was some¬ 
times displayed, covered more than the usual quantity of 
shrewd and caustic observation proper to his class. 

In fact, Tiel Wetzweiler, called Le Glorieux, was by no 
means a jester of the common stamp. He was a tall, fine- 
looking man, excellent at many exercises, which seemed scarce 
reconcilable with mental imbecility, because it must have 
required patience and attention to attain them. He usually 
followed the Duke to the chase and to the fight; and at 
Montl’hery, when Charles was in considerable personal dan¬ 
ger, wounded in the throat, and likely to be made prisoner by 
a French knight who had hold of his horse’s rein, Tiel Wetz-. 
weiler charged the assailant so forcibly as to overthrow him 
and disengage his master. Perhaps he was afraid of this being 
thought too serious a service for a person of his condition, and 
that it might excite him enemies among those knights and 
nobles who had left the care of their master’s person to the 
court’s fool. At any rate, he chose rather to be laughed at 
than praised for his achievement, and made such gasconading^ 
boasts of his exploits in the battle, that most men thought the 
rescue of Charles was as ideal as the rest of his tale; and it 
was on this occasion he acquired the title of Le Glorieux (or 
the boastful), by which he was ever afterwards distinguished. 

Le Glorieux was dressed very richly, but with little of the 
usual distinction of his profession, and that little rather of a 
symbolical than a very literal character. His head was not 
shorn; on the contrary, he wore a profusion of long curled 

iGasconading. The natives of Gascony in the South of France were notorious 
boasters; hence the verb gasconade, to brag. 






410 


Quentin Durward 

hair, which descended from under his cap, and joining with a 
well-arranged and handsomely trimmed beard, set off features 
which, but for a wild lightness of eye, might have been termed 
handsome. A ridge of scarlet velvet, carried across the top of 
his cap, indicated, rather than positively represented, the pro¬ 
fessional cock’s-comb, which distinguished the headgear of a 
fool in right of office. His bauble, made of ebony, was crested, 
as usual, with a fool’s head, with ass’s ears formed of silver; 
but so small, and so minutely carved, that, till very closely 
examined, it might have passed for an official baton of a more 
§olemn character. These were the only badges of his office 
which his dress exhibited. In other respects, it was such as to 
match with that of the most courtly nobles. His bonnet dis¬ 
played a medal of gold; he wore a chain of the same metal 
around his neck; and the fashion of his rich garments was not 
much more fantastic than those of young gallants who have 
their clothes made in the extremity of the existing fashion. 

To this personage Charles, and Louis, in imitation of -his 
host, often addressed themselves during the entertainment; 
and both seemed to manifest, by hearty laughter, their amuse¬ 
ment at the answers of Le Glorieux. 

“Whose seats be'those that are vacant ?” said Charles to the . 
jester. 

“One of those at least should be mine by right of succes¬ 
sion, Charles,” replied Le Glorieux. 

“Why so, knave?” said Charles.- 

Because they belong to the Sieur D’Hymbercourt and Des 
Comines, who are gone so far to fly their falcons that they 
have forgot their supper. They who would rather look at a 
kite on the wing than a pheasant on the board are of kin to 
the fool, and he should succeed to the stools, as a part of their 
movable estate.” 

“That is but a stale jest, my frjend Tiel,” said the Duke; 
“but,, fools or wdse men, here come the defaulters.” 

As he spoke, Comines and D’Hymbercourt entered the 
room, and, after having made their reverence to the two 




Quentin Durward 4ii 

princes, assumed in silence the seats which were left vacant for 
them. 

“What ho! sirs,” exclaimed the Duke addressing them, 
“your sport has been either very good or very bad, to lead you 
so far and so late. Sir Philip des Comines, you are dejected; 
hath D’Hymbercourt won so heavy a wager on you? You 
are a philosopher, and should not grieve at bad fortune. By 
St. George! D’Hymbercourt looks as sad as thou dost. How 
noAV, sirs? Have you found no game? or have you lost your 
falcons? or has a witch crossed your way? or has the Wild 
Huntsman^ met you in the forest? By my honour, you seem 
as if you were come to a funeral, not a festival. 

While the Duke spoke, the eyes of the company were all 
directed towards D’Hymbercourt and Des Comines; and the 
embarrassment and dejection of their countenances, neither 
being of that class of persons to whom such expression of 
anxious melancholy was natural, became so remarkable, that 
the mirth and laughter of the company, which the rapid circu¬ 
lation of goblets of excellent wine had raised to a considerable 
height, was gradually hushed, and, without being able to 
assign any reason for such a change in their spirits, men spoke 
in whispers to each other, as on the eve of expecting some 
strange and important tidings. 

“What means this silence, Messires?” said the Duke, 
elevating his voice, which was naturally harsh. “If you bring 
these strange looks, and this stranger silence, into festivities. 



or rather for woodcocks and howlets.” 


“My gracious lord,” said Des Comines, “as we were about 
to return hither from the forest, we met the Count of Creve- 
coeur. 

“How!” said the Duke; “already returned from Brabant? 
but he found all well there, doubtless?” 

“The count himself will presently give your Grace an 

iThe Wild Huntsman. The famous apparition, sometimes called Lc Grande 
Veneur The story is told by a German poet, Burger, m a ballad. Der W tide 
Jdger which was translated by Scott, and is included among his poems. 


412 


Quentin Durward 

account of his news,’’ said D’Hymbercourt, “which we have 
heard but imperfectl}^” 

“Body of me, where is the count?” said the Duke. 

“He changes his dress, to wait upon your Highness,,” 
answered D’Hymbercourt. 

“His dress! Samt-hleau!” ^ exclaimed the impatient prince, 
“what care I for his dress? I think 3^011 have conspired with 
him to drive me mad.” 

“Or rather, to be plain,” said Des Comines, “he wishes to 
communicate these news at a private audience.” ' 

''Teste-dicu!~ my lord king,” said Charles, “this is ever the 
way our counsellors serve us. If they have got hold of aught 
which they consider as important for our ear, they look as 
grave upon the matter, and are as- proud of their burden as 
an ass of a new pack-saddle. Some one bid Crevecoeur come 
to us directly! He comes from the frontiers of Liege, and ive, 
at least (he laid some emphasis on the pronoun), have no 
secrets in that quarter which we would shun to have pro¬ 
claimed before the assembled world.” 

All perceived that the Duke had drunk so much wine as 
to Increase the native obstinacy of his disposition; and though 
many would willingly have suggested that the present was 
neither a time for hearing news, nor for taking counsel, yet all 
knew the impetuosity of his temper too well to venture on 
farther interference, and sat in anxious expectation of the 
tidings which the count might have to communicate. 

A brief interval intervened, during which the Duke 
remained looking eagerly to the door, as if in a transport of 
Impatience, whilst the guests sat with their e3’es bent on the 
table, as if to conceal their curiosity and anxiety. Louis alone 
maintaining perfect composure, continued his conversation 
alternately with the grand carver and with the jester. 

At length Crevecoeur entered, and was presently salut{;d 
by tlie hurried question of his master, “What news from Liege 

^Saint-bleau. Good Lord. 

"Teste-dieu. Same as Tete-dieu, God’s head. 




Quentin Durward 


413 


and Brabant, sir count? The report of your arrival has 
chased mirth from our table; we hope your actual presence 
will bring it back to,us.” 

“My liege and master,” answered the count, in a firm but 
melancholy tone, “the news which I bring you are fitter for 
the council-board than the feasting-table.” 

“Out with them, man, if they were tidings from Anti¬ 
christ!” said the Duke; “but I can guess them: the Liegeois 
are again in mutiny.” 

“They are, my lord,” said Crevecmur, very gravely. 

“Look there, man,” said the Duke, “I have hit at once on 
what 5"OU have been so much ^fraid to mention to me: the 
harebrained burghers are again in arms. It could not be in 
better time, for we may at present have the advice of our own 
suzerain,” bowing to King Louis., with eyes which spoke the 
most bitter, though suppressed resentm.ent,. “to teach us how 
such mutineers should be dealt with. Hast thou more news 
in thy packet? Out with them, and then answer for your¬ 
self why you went not forward to assist the bishop.” 

“My lord, the farther tidings are heavy for me to tell, and 
will be afflicting to you to hear. No aid of mine, or of living 
chivalry, could have availed the excellent prelate. William 
de la Marck, united with the insurgent Liegeois, has taken his 
castle of Schonwaldt, and murdered him in his own hall.” 

“Murdered hwiT repeated the Duke in a deep and low 
tone, but which nevertheless was heard from the one end of 
the hall in which they were assembled to the other; “thou 
hast been imposed upon, Crevecoeur, by some wild report; it 
is impossible!” 

“Alas, my lord!” said the count, “I have it from an eye¬ 
witness, an archer of the King of France’s Scottish Guard, 
who was in the hall when the murder was committed by 
William de la March’s order.” 

“And who was doubtless aiding and abetting in the hor¬ 
rible sacrilege!” exclaimed the Duke, starting up and stamping 
with his -foot with such fury, that he dashed in pieces the 





414 


Quentin Durward 

footstool which was placed before him. “Bar the doors of this 
hall, gentlemen—secure the windows—let no stranger stir 
from his seat, upon pain of instant death! Gentlemen of my 
chamber, draw’your sw^ords.” And turning upon Louis, he 
advanced his own hand slowly and deliberately to the hilt of 
his weapon; w^hile the King, without either showing fear or 
assuming a defensive posture, only said— 

“These news, fair cousin, have staggered your reason.” [ 
“No!” replied the Duke, in a terrible tone, “but they have I 
awakened a just resentment, which I have too long suffered to P 
be stifled by trivial considerations of circumstance and place. ( 
Murderer of thy brother!—rebel against thy parent!—tyrant i 
over thy subjects!—treacherous ally!—perjured king!—dis- | 
honoured gentleman!—thou art in my power, and I thank 
God for it.” . 

“Rather thank my folly,” said the King; “for when we j 
met on equal terms at Montl’hery, methinks you wished your- I 
self farther from me than we are now.” 

The Duke still held his hand on the hilt of his sword, but j 
refrained to draw his weapon, or to strike a foe who offered j 
no sort of resistance which could in anywise provoke violence. I 
Meanwhile, wild and general confusion spread itself j 
through the hall. The doors were now fastened and guarded 
by order of the Duke; but several of the French nobles, few i 
as they were in number, started from their seats,, and prepared | 
for the defence of their sovereign. Louis had spoken not a 
word either to Orleans or Dunois since they were liberated 
from restraint at the Castle of Loches, if it could be termed i 
liberation to be dragged in King Louis’s train, objects of 
suspicion evidently rather than of respect and regard; but, 
nevertheless, the voice of Dunois was first heard above the 
tumult addressing himself to the Duke of Burgundy. “Sir 
duke, you have forgotten that you are a vassal of France, and 
that we, your guests, are Frenchmen. If you lift a hand 
against our monarch, prepare to sustain the utmost effects of 
oiir despair; for, credit me, we shall feast as high with the 




415 


Quentin Durward 

blood of Burgundy as we have done with its wine. Courage, 
my LorS of Orleans; and you gentlemen of France, form 
yourselves round Dunois, and do as he does!” 

It was in that moment when a king might see upon what 
tempers he could certainly rely. The few independent nobles 
and knights who attended Louis, most of whom had only 
I received from him frowns or discountenance, unappalled by 
the display of infinitely superior force, and the certainty of 
destruction in case they came to blows, hastened to array 
themselves around Dunois,, and, led by him, to press towards 
the head of the table where the contending princes were seated. 

On the contrary, the tools and agents whom Louis had 
dragged forward out of their fitting and natural places into 
importance which was not due to them, showed cowardice and 
cold heart, and remaining still in their seats, seemed resolved 
not to provoke their fate by intermeddling, whatever might 
become of their benefactor. 

The first of the more generous party was the venerable 
Lord Crawford, who, with an agility which no one would 
have expected at his years, forced his way through all opposi¬ 
tion, which was the less violent, as many of the Burgundians, 
either from a point of honour or a secret inclination to prevent 
I Louis’s impending fate, gave way to him, and threw himself 
I boldly between the King and the Duke. He then placed his 
i bonnet, from which his white hair escaped in dishevelled 
tresses, upon one side of his head; his pale cheek and withered 
brow coloured, and his aged eye lightened with all the fire of 
a gallant who is about to dare some desperate action. His 
cloak was flung over one shoulder, and his action intimated his 
readiness to wrap it about his left arm, while he unsheathed 
his sword with his right. 

“I have fought for his father and his grandsire,” that was 
all he said, “and by St. Andrew, end the matter as it will, I 
will not fail him at this pinch.” 

What has taken some time to narrate happened, in fact, 
with the speed of light; for so soon as the Duke assumed his 






416 Quentin Durward 

threatening posture, Crawford had thrown himself betwixt 
him and the object of his vengeance; and the French gentle¬ 
men, drawing together as fast as they could, were crowding 

to the same point. ^ i j 

The Duke of Burgundy still remained with his hand on 

his sword, and seemed In the act of giving the signal for a 
general onset, which must necessarily have ended in the mas¬ 
sacre of the weaker party, when Crevecoeur rushed forward 
and exclaimed in a voice like a trumpet, “My liege Lord of 
Burgundy, beware what you do! This Is your hall, you are 
the King’s vassal; do not spill the blood of your guest on 
your hearth, the blood of your sovereign on the throne you 
have erected for him, and to which he came under 5^our safe¬ 
guard. For the sake of your house’s honour, do not attempt 
to revenge one horrid murder by another yet worse 1 ’ 

“Out of my road, Crevecoeur,” answered the Duke, “and 
let my vengeance pass I Out of my path 1 T. he wrath of 
kings Is to he dreaded like that of Heaven.”^ 

“Only when, like that of Heaven, It Is just,'" answered 
Crevecoeur firmly. “Let me pray of you, my lord, to rein the 
violence of your temper, however justly offended. And for 
you, my lords of France, where resistance is unavailing, let 
me recommend you to forbear whatever may lead towards 
bloodshed.” 

“He Is right,” said Louis, whose coolness forsook him not 
In that dreadful moment, and who easily foresaw that if a 
brawl should commence, more violence would be dared and 
done In the heat of blood than was likely to be attempted If 
peace were preserved. “IVIy cousin Orleans kind Dunols 
and you, my trusty Crawford—bring not on ruin and blood¬ 
shed by taking offence too hastily. Our cousin the Duke Is 
chafed at the tidings of the death of a near and loving friend, 
the venerable Bishop of Liege, whose slaughter we lament-as 
he does. Ancient and, unhappily, recent subjects of jealousy 
lead him to suspect us of having abetted a crime which our 
bosom abhors. Should our host murder us on this spot—us, 




417 


Quentin Durward 

his king and his kinsman, under a false impression of our 
being accessory to this unhappy accident, our fate will be 
little lightened, but, on the contrary, greatly aggravated, by 
your stirring. Therefore, stand back, Crawford. Were it 
my last word, I speak as a king to his officer, and demand 
obedience. Stand back, and, if it is required, yield up your 
sword. I command you to do so, and your oath obliges you 
to obey.” 

“True—true, my lord,” said Crawford, stepping back,, 
and returning to the sheath the blade he had half drawn. “It 
may be all very true; but by my honour, if I were at the head 
of threescore and ten of my brave fellows, instead of being 
loaded with more than the like number of years, I would try 
whether I could have some reason out of these fine gallants, 
with their golden chains and looped-up bonnets, with braw- 
warld dves^ and devices on them.” 

The Duke stood with his eyes fixed on the ground for a 
considerable space, and then said, with bitter irony, “Creve- 
coeur, you say well; and it concerns our honour, that our 
obligations to this great king, our honoured and loving guest, 
be not so hastily adjusted, as in our hasty anger we had at 
first proposed. We will so act that all Europe shall acknowl¬ 
edge the justice of our proceedings. Gentlemen of France, 
you must render up your arms to my officers! Your master 
has broken the truce, and has no title to take farther benefit 
of it. In compassion, however, to your sentiments of-honour, 
and in respect to the rank which he hath disgraced, and the 
race from which he hath degenerated, we ask not our cousin 
Louis’s sword.” 

“Not one of qs,” said Dunois, “will resign our weapon, or 
quit this hall, unless we are assured of at least our king’s 
safety in life and limb.” 

“Nor will a man of the Scottish Guard,” exclaimed Craw¬ 
ford, “lay down his arms, save at the command of the King of 
France, or his High Constable.” 

1 Braw-warld. Showy, gaudy. Braw means brave, splendid. 





418 


Quentin Durward 

“Brave Dunois,” said Louis, “and you, my trusty Craw¬ 
ford, your zeal will do me injury instead of benefit. I trust, 
he added with dignity, “in my rightful cause more than in a 
vain resistance, which would but cost the lives of my best and 
bravest. Give up your swords; the noble Burgundians who 
accept such honourable pledges will be more able than you are 
to protect both you and me. Give up your swords. It is 
who command you.” 

It was thus that, in this dreadful emergency, Louis showed 
the promptitude of decision and clearness of judgment which 
alone could have saved his life. He was aware that until 
actual blows were exchanged he should have the assistance of 
most of the nobles present to moderate the fury of their prince, 
hut that, were a mHee once commenced, he himself and his 
few adherents must be instantly murdered. At the same time, 
his worst enemies confessed that his demeanour had in it 
nothing either of meanness or cowardice. He shunned to 
aggravate into frenzy the wrath of the Duke, but he neither 
deprecated nOr seemed to fear it, and continued to look on him 
with the calm and fixed attention with which a brave man 
eyes the menacing gestures of a lunatic, whilst conscious that 
his own steadiness and composure operate as an insensible and 
powerful check on the rage even of insanity. 

Crawford, at the King’s command, threw his sword to 
Crevecceur, saying, “Take it, and the devil give you joy of it! 
It is no dishonour to the rightful owner who yields it, for we 
have had no fair play.” 

“Hold, gentlemen,” said the Duke, in a broken voice, as 
one whom passion had almost deprived of utterance, retain 
your swords; it is sufficient you promise not to use them. And 
you, Louis of Valois, must regard yourself as my prisoner, 
until you are cleared of having abetted sacrilege and murder. 
Have him to the castle. Have him to Earl Herbert’s Tower. 
Let him have six gentlemen of his train to attend him, such as 
he shall choose. My Lord of Crawford, your guard must leave 
the castle, and shall be honourably quartered elsewhere. Up 




Quentin Durward 419 

with every drawbridge, and down with every portcullis/ Let 
the gates of the town be trebly guarded. Draw the floating- 
bridge to the right-hand side of the river. Bring round the 
castle my band of Black Walloons,^ and treble'the sentinels on 
every post! You, D’Hymbercourt, look that patrols of horse 
and foot make the round of the town every half hour during 
the night, and every hour during the next day—if indeed such 
ward shall be necessary after daybreak, for it is like we may 
be sudden in this matter. Look to the person of Louis, as you 
love your life I” 

He started from the table in fierce and moody haste, 
darted a glance of mortal enmity at the King, and rushed out 
of the apartment. 

“Sirs,” said the King, looking with dignity around him, 
“grief for the death of his ally hath made your prince frantic. 
I trust you know better your duty as knights and noblemen, 
than to abet him in his treasonable violence against the person 
of his liege lord.” 

At this moment was heard in the, streets the sound of 
drums beating and horns blowing to call out the soldiery in 
every direction. 

“We are,” said Crevecceur, who acted as the marshal of 
the Duke’s household, “subjects of Burgundy, and must do 
our duty as such. Our hopes and prayers, and our efforts, 
will not be wanting to bring about peace and union between 
your Majesty and our liege lord. Meantime, we must obey 
his commands. These other lords and knights will be proud 
to contribute to the convenience of the illustrious Duke of 
Orleans, of the brave Dunois, and the stout Lord Crawford. 1 
myself must be your Majesty’s chamberlain, and bring you to 
your apartments in other guise than would be my desire, 
remembering the hospitality of Plessis. You have only to 
choose your atendants, whom the Duke’s commands limit to 
six.” 

1 Portcullis. A heavy gate, raised or lowered vertically. See note, page 46. 

^Black Walloons. Descendants of the Gallic Belgae; probably uniformed in 
black. 




420 


Quentin Durward 

“Then,” said the King looking around him, and thinking 
for a moment, “I desire the attendance of Oliver le Dam, of a 
private of my Life Guard, called Balafre, who may be unarmed 
if you will, of Tristan I’Hermite, with two of his people, and 
my right loyal and trusty philosopher, Martius Galeotti. 

“Your Majesty’s will shall be complied with in all points,” 
said the Count de Crevecccur. “Galeotti,” he added, after a 
moment’s inquiry, “is, I understand, at present supping in 
some buxom company, but he shall instantly be sent for, the 
others will obey your IVIajesty s command upon the instant. 

“Forward, then, to the new abode, which the hospitality of 
our cousin provides for us,” said the King. “We know it is 
strong, and have only to hope it may be in a corresponding 
degree safe.” 

“Heard you the choice which King Louis has made of his 
attendants?” said Le Glorieux to Count Crevecoeur apart, as 
they followed Louis from the hall. 

“Surely, my merry gossip,” replied the count. “What hast 
thou to object to them?” > 

“Nothing—nothing, only they are a rare election! A 
panderly barber, a Scottish hired cut-throat, a chief hangman 
and his two assistants, and a thieving charlatan. I will along 
with you, Crevecoeur, and take a lesson in the degrees of 
roguery, from observing your skill in marshalling them. The 
devil himself could scarce have summoned such a synod, or 
have been a better president amongst them.” 

Accordingly, the all-licensed jester, seizing the count’s arm 
familiarly, began to march along with him, while, under a 
strong guard, yet forgetting no semblance of respect, he con¬ 
ducted the King towards his new apartment.^ 

iSee Historical Epitome. Note 25 at end of the novel. 





CHAPTER XXVIII. 


UNCERTAINTY 

Then happy low, lie down; 

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

Henry IV., Part II. 

Forty men-at-arms, carrying alternately naked swords 
and blazing torches, served as the escort, or rather the guard, 
of King Louis, from the town-hall of Peronne to the castle; 
and as he entered within its darksome and gloomy strength, it 
seemed as if a voice screamed in his ear that warning which 
the Florentine has inscribed over the portal of the infernal 
regions, “Leave all hope behind !” ^ 

At that moment, perhaps, some feeling of remorse might 
have crossed the King’s mind, had he thought on the hundreds, 
nay thousands, whom, without cause, or in light suspicion, he 
had committed to the abysses of his dungeons, deprived of all 
hope of liberty, and loathing even the life to which they clung 
by animal instinct. 

The broad glare of the torches outfacing the pale moon, 
which was more obscure on this than on the former night, and 
the red smoky light which they dispersed around the ancient 
buildings, gave a darker shade to that huge donjon, called the 
Earl Herbert’s Tower. It was the same that Louis had 
viewed with misgiving presentiment on the preceding evening, 
and of which he was now doomed to become an inhabitant, 
under the terror of what violence soever the wrathful temper 
of his overgrown vassal might tempt him to exercise in those 
secret recesses of despotism. 

To aggravate the King’s painful feelings, he saw, as he 
crossed the court-yard, several bodies, over each of which had 

^Leave all hope behind! Dante, in his Inferno, places this inscription over 
the portals of Hell: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here. 

421 



422 


Quentin Durward 

betn hastily flung a military cloak. He was not long of dis¬ 
cerning that they were corpses of slain archers of the Scottish 
Guard, who, having disputed, as the Count Crevecceur 
informed him, the command given them to quit the post near 
the King’s apartments, a brawl had ensued between them and ■ 
the Duke’s Walloon body-guards, and before it could be com¬ 
posed by the officers on either side, several lives had been lost. 

“My trusty Scots!” said the King, as he looked upon this 
melancholy spectacle; “had they brought only man to man, 
all Flanders—ay and Burgundy to boot—had not furnished 
champions to mate you.” 

“Yes, an it please your Majesty,” said Balafre., who i 
attended close behind the King, “Maistery^ mows the meadow: j 
few men can fight more than two at once. I myself never care j 
to meet three, unless it be in the way of special duty, when one 
must not stand to count heads.” 

“Art thou there, old acquaintance?” said the King, looking 
behind him; “then I have one true subject with me yet.” 

“And a faithful minister, whether in your councils, or in 
his offices about your royal person,” whispered Oliver le Dain. 

“We are all faithful,” said Tristan I’Hermite, gruffly; 
“for should they put to death your Majesty, there is not one of 
us whom they would suffer to survive you, even if we would.” 

“Now, that is what I call good corporal bail for fidelity,” : 
said Le Glorieux, who, as already mentioned, with the rest¬ 
lessness proper to an infirm brain, had thrust himself into their 
company. 

Meanwhile, the seneschal, hastily summoned, was turning ■ 
with labourious efliort the ponderous key which opened the 
reluctant gate of the huge Gothic keep, and was at last fain toa 
call for the assistance of one of Crevecocur’s attendants.® 
When they had succeeded, six men entered with torches, and | 
showed the way through a narrow and winding passage, com¬ 
manded at different points by shot-holes from vaults and , 

'i 

^Maislery. Obsolete form of mastery; used here, perhaps, in sense of superior^ 
strength. 





Quentin Durward 


423 


casements constructed behind, and in the thickness of the 
massive walls. At the end of this passage arose a stair of cor¬ 
responding rudeness, consisting of huge blocks of stone, 
roughly dressed with the hammer, and of unequal height. 
Having mounted this ascent, a strong iron-clenched door 
admitted them to what had been the great hall of the donjon, 
lighted but very faintly even during the daytime, for the 
apertures, diminished in appearance by the excessive thickness 
of the walls., resembled slits rather than windows, and now, 
but for the blaze of the torches, almost perfectly dark. Two 
or three bats, and other birds of evil presage, roused by the 
unusual glare, flew against the lights and threatened to 
extinguish them; while the seneschal formally apologised to 
the King that the state-hall had not been put in order, such 
was the hurry of the notice sent to him; and adding, that, in 
truth, the apartment had not been in use for twenty years, 
and rarely before that time, so far as ever he had heard, since 
the time of King Charles the Simple. 

“King Charles the Simple!” echoed Louis; “I know the 
history of the tower now. He was here murdered by his 
treacherous vassal, Herbert, Earl of Vermandois,— so say 
our annals. I knew there was something concerning the 
Castle of Peronne which dwelt on my mind, though I could 
not recall the circumstance. HerCj thep, my predecessor was 
slain 1” 

“Not here, not exactly here, and please your Majesty,” said 
the old seneschal, stepping with the eager haste of a cicerone,^ 
who shows the curiosities of such a place —''not here, but in the 
side-chamber a little onward, which opens from your Majesty’s 
bedchamber.” 

He hastily opened a wicket at the upper end of the hall, 
which led into a bedchamber, small, as is usual in such old 
buildings, but, even for that reason, rather more comfortable 
than the waste hall through which they had passed. Some 

^Cicerone. An Italian word (anglicised) meaning a voluble guide who ex¬ 
plains curiosities to sightseers; literally, a little Cicero. 




424 QuEXTIN DuRWARD 

hasty preparations had been here made for the King s accom¬ 
modation. Arras had been tacked up, a fire lighted in the 
rusty grate, which had been long unused, and a pallet laid 
down for those gentlemen who were to pass the night in his 
chamber, as was then usual. 

“We will get beds in the hall for the rest of your attend¬ 
ants,” said the garrulous old man; “but we have had such 
brief notice, if it please your Majesty. And if it please your 
Majesty to look upon this little wicket behind the arras, it 
opens into the little old cabinet in the thickness of the wall 
where Charles was slain, and there is a secret passage from 
below, which admitted the men who were to deal with him. 
And your Majesty, whose eyesight, I hope is better than mine, 
may see the blood still on tbe oak floor, though the thing was 
done five hundred years ago.” 

While he thus spoke, he kept fumbling to open the postern 
of which he spoke, until the King said, “Forbear, old man— 
forbear but a little while, when thou mayst have a newer tale 
to tell, and fresher blood to show. My Lord of Crevecoeur, 
what say you?” 

“I can but answer, sire, that these two interior apartments 
are as much at your Majesty’s disposal as those in your own 
castle at Plessis, and that Crevecoeur, a name never blackened 
by treachery or assassination, has the guard of the exterior 
defences of it.” 

“But the private passage into that closet, of which the old 
man speaks!” This King Louis said in a low and anxious 
tone, holding Crevecceur’s arm fast with one hand, and point¬ 
ing to the wicket door with the other. 

“It must be some dream of Mornay’s,” said Crevecoeur, 
“or some old and absurd tradition of the place; but we will 
examine.” 

He was about to open the closet door, when Louis answered, 
“No, Crevecoeur, no; your honour is sufficient warrant. But 
what will your duke do with me, Crevecoeur? He cannot 



425 


Quentin Durward 

hope to keep me long a prisoner; and—in short, give me your 
opinion, Crevecoeur.” 

“My lord and sire,” said the count, “how the Duke of 
Burgundy must resent this horrible cruelty on the person of 
his near relative and ally is for your Majesty to judge; and 
what right he may have to consider it as instigated by j^our 
Majesty’s emissaries you only can know. But my master is 
noble in his disposition, and made incapable even by the very 
strength of his passions, of any underhand practices. What¬ 
ever he does will be done in the face of day and of the two 
nations. And I can but add, it will be the wish of every 
counsellor around him—excepting perhaps one—that he should 
behave in this matter with mildness and generosity, as well as 
justice.” 

“Ah ! Crevecoeur,” said Louis,, taking his hand as if affected 
by some painful recollections, “how happy is the prince who 
has counsellors near him who can guard him against the effects 
of his own angry passions! Their names will be read in golden 
letters, when the history of his reign is perused. Noble Creve¬ 
coeur, had it been my lot to have such as thou art about wzy 
person!” 

“It had in that case been your Majesty’s study to have got 
rid of them as fast as you could,” said Le Glorieux. 

“Aha! Sir Wisdom, art thou there?” said Louis, turning 
round, and instantly changing the pathetic tone in which he 
had addressed Crevecoeur, and adopting with facility one 
which had a turn of gaiety in it; “hast thou followed us 
, hither ?” 

“Ay, sir,” answered Le Glorieux, “wisdom must follow in 
motley, where folly leads the way in purple.” 

“How shall I construe that, Sir Solomon,” answered 
Louis; “wouldst thou change conditions with me?” 

“Not I, by my halidome,” quoth Le Glorieux, “if you 
would give me fifty crowns to boot.” 

“Why, wherefore so? Methinks I could be well enough 
contented, as princes go, to have thee for my king.” 




426 


Quentin Durward 

“Ay, sire,” replied-Le Glorieux; “but the question is, 
whether, judging of your Majesty’s wit from its having 
lodged you here, I should not have cause to be ashamed of 
having so dull a fool.” 

“Peace, sirrah!” said the Count of Crevecoeur; “your 
tongue runs too fast.” 

“Let it take its course,” said the King; “I know of no 
such fair subject of raillery as the follies of those who should 
know better. Here, my sagacious friend, take this purse of 
gold, and with it the advice, never to be so great a fool as to 
deem yourself wiser than other people. Prithee, do me so 
much favour as to inquire after my astrologer,, Martius Gale- 
otti, and send him hither to me presently.” 

“I will, without fail, my liege,” answ^ered the jester; “and 
I wot well I shall find him at Jan Dopplethur’s; for philoso¬ 
phers, as well as fools, know where the best wine is sold.” 

“Let me pray for free entranc^ for this learned person 
through your guards, Seignior de Crevecmur,” said Louis. 

“For his entrance, unquestionably,” answered the count; 
“but it grieves me to add, that my instructions do not authorise 
me to permit any one to quit your Majesty’s apartments. I 
wish your Majesty a good night,” he subjoined, “and will 
presently make such arrangements in the outer hall as may put 
the gentlemen who are to inhabit it more at their ease.” 

“Give yourself no trouble for them, sir count,” replied the 
King, they are men accustomed to set hardships at defiance; 
and, to speak truth, excepting that I wish to see Galeotti, I 
would desire as little further communication from without 
this night as may be consistent with your instructions.” 

“These are, to leave your Majesty,” replied Crevecmur, 
“undisputed possession of your own apartments. Such are my 
master’s orders.” 

“Your master. Count Crevecoeur,” answered Louis, “whom 
I may also term mine, is a right gracious master. My domin¬ 
ions,” he added, “are somewhat shrunk in compass, now that 
they have dwindled to an old hall and a bedchamber; but they 




Quentin Durward 427 

are still wide enough for all the subjects which I can at 
present boast of.” 

The Count of Crevecoeur took his leave; and, shortly 
after, they could hear the noise of the sentinels moving to their 
posts, accompanied with the word of command from the 
officers, and the hasty tread of the guards who were relieved. 
At length all became still, and the only sound which filled the 
air was the sluggish murmur of the river Somme,, as it glided, 
deep and muddy, under the walls of the castle. 

“Go into the hall, my mates,” said Louis to his train; “but 
do not lie down to sleep. Hold yourselves in readiness, for 
there is still something to be done to-night, and that of 
moment.” 

Oliver and Tristan retired to the hall accordingly, in 
which Le Balafre and the provost-marshal’s two officers had 
remained when the others entered the bedchamber. They 
found that those without had thrown fagots enough on the 
fire to serve the purpose of light and heat at the same time, 
and, wrapping themselves in their cloaks, had sat down on the 
floor, in postures which variously expressed the discomposure 
and dejection of their minds. Oliver and Tristan saw nothing 
better to be done than to follow their example; and, never 
very good friends in the days of th^ir court prosperity, they 
were both equally reluctant to repose confidence in each other 
upon this strange and sudden reverse of fortune. So that the 
whole party sat in silent dejection. 

Meanwhile their master underwent, in the retirement of 
his secret chamber, agonies that might have atoned for some of 
those which had been imposed by his comm.and. He paced the 
room with short and unequal steps, often stood still and 
clasped his hands together, and gave loose, in short, to agita¬ 
tion,, which, in public, he had found himself able to suppress 
so successfully. At length, pausing, and wringing his hands, 
he planted himself opposite to the wicket-door, which had been 
pointed out by old Mornay as leading to the scene of the 



428 


Quentin Durward 

murder of one of his predecessors, and gradually gave voice to 
his feelings in a broken soliloquy. 

“Charles the Simple—Charles the Simple! What will 
posterity call the Eleventh Louis, whose blood will probably * 
soon refresh the stains of thine? Louis the Fool Louis the 
Driveller—Louis the Infatuated—all are terms too slight to 
mark the extremity of my idiocy 1 To think these hot-headed 
Liegeois, to whom rebellion is as natural as their food, would 
rernain quiet—to dream that the Wild Beast of Ardennes 
would, for a moment, be interrupted in his career of force and 
bloodthirsty brutality—to suppose that I could use reason and 
arguments to any good purpose with Charles of Bui gundy, 
until I had tried the force of such exhortations with success 
upon a wild bull? Fool, and double idiot that I was! But the 
villain Martius shall not escape. He has been at the bottom 
of this, he and the vile priest, the detestable Balue.^ If I ever 
get out of this danger, I will tear from his head the cardinal s 
cap, though I pull the scalp along with it! But the other 
traitor is in my hands: I am yet king enough—have yet an 
empire roomy enough—for the punishment of the quack- 
salving, word-mongering, star-gazing, lie-coining impostor, 
who has at once made a prisoner and a dupe of me! The con- , 
junction of the constellations—ay, the conjunction! He must 
talk nonsense which would scarce gull a thrice-sodden " sheep’s 
head, and I must be idiot enough to think I understood him! 

But we shall see presently what the conjunction hath really 
boded. But first let me to my devotions.” J 

Above the little door, in memory perhaps of the deed 
which had been done within, was a rude niche, containing a ^ 
crucifix cut in stone. Upon this emblem the King fixed his k 
eyes, as if about to kneel, but stopped short, as if he applied to 
the blessed image the principles of worldly policy and deemed it 
rash to approach its presence without having secured the private 
intercession of some supposed favourite. He therefore turned 


^Balue. See Note 26 at end of the novel. 

^Thrice-sodden. Sodden is an old participial form from the verb seethe, to boil. 


1 




429 


Quentin Durward 

from the crucifix as unworthy to look upon it, and selecting 
from the images with which, as often mentioned, his hat was 
completely garnished, a representation of the Lady of Clery, 
knelt down before it, and made the following extraordinary 
■ prayer in which, it is to be observed, the grossness of his 

[ superstition induced him, in some degree, to consider the 

I virgin of Clery as a different person from the Madonna of 

I Embrun, a favourite idol, to whom he often paid his vows. 

I Sweet Lady of Clery,” ^ he exclaimed, clasping his hands 

and beating his breast while he spoke, “blessed Mother of 
I Mercy! thou who art omnipotent with Omnipotence, have 
! compassion with me a sinner! It is true that I have something 
neglected thee for thy blessed sister of Embrun; but I am a 
king, my power is great, my wealth boundless; and, were it 
otherwise, I would double the gabelle~ on my subjects, rather 
than not pay my debts to you both. Undo these iron doors— 
fill up these tremendous moats—lead me, as a mother leads a 
child, out of this present and pressing danger! If I have given 
thy sister the county of Boulogne to be held of her for ever, 
j have I no means of showing devotion to thee also? Thou 
j shalt have the broad and rich province of Champagne; and its 
vineyards shall pour their abundance into thy convent. I had 
promised the province to my brother Charles; but he, thou 
knowest, is dead—poisoned by that wicked abbe of St. John 
d’Angely, whom, if I live, I will punish! I promised this 
once before, but this time I will keep my word. If I had any 
knowledge of the crime, believe, dearest patroness, it was 
because I knew no better method of quieting the discontents of 
my kingdom. O do not reckon that old debt to my account 
to-day; but be, as thou hast ever been, kind, benignant, and 
easy to be entreated ! Sweetest Lady, work with thy Child, that 
He will pardon all past sins, and one—one little deed which 
I must do this night; nay, it is no sin, dearest Lady of Clery— 
no sin, but an act of justice privately administered, for the 


^Lady of Clery. Clery was eventually the buriaj place of Louis XI. 
^Gabelle. The royal tax on salt. * 



430 


Quextix Durward 

villain is the greatest impostor that ever poured falsehood into 
a prince’s ear, and leans besides to the filthy heresy of the , 

Greeks/ He is not deserving of thy protection, leave him to 
my care; and hold it as good service that I rid the world of 
him, for the man is a necromancer and wizard, that is not 
worth thy thought and care—a dog, the extinction of whose 
life ought to be of as little consequence in thine eyes as the 
treading out a spark that drops from a lamp, or springs from 
a fire. Think not of this little matter, gentlest, kindest Lady, . 
but only consider how thou canst best aid me in my troubles! _ i 
and I here bind my royal signet to thy effigy, in token that I 
will keep my word concerning the county of Champagne, and 
that this shall be the last time I will trouble thee in affairs of 
blood, knowing thou art so kind., so gentle, and so tender¬ 
hearted.” 

After this extraordinary contract with the object of his 
adoration, Louis jecited, apparently with deep devotion, the 
seven penitential psalms in Latin, and several aves and prayers 
especially belonging to the service of the Virgin. He then 
arose, satisfied that he had secured the intercession of the saint 
to whom he had prayed, the rather, as he craftily reflected, 
that most of the sins for which he had requested her media¬ 
tion on former occasions had been of a different character, and 
that, therefore, the Lady of Clery was less likely to consider 
him as a hardened and habitual shedder of blood, than the 
other saints whom he had more frequently made confidants of 
his crimes in that respect.” 

When he had thus cleared his conscience, or rather whited 
it over like a sepulchre, the King thrust his head out at the i 
door of the hall, and summoned Le Balafre into his apart¬ 
ment. “My good soldier,” he said, “thou hast served me long, 
and hast had little promotion. We are here in a case where I 

1 Heresy of the Greeks. Doctrines of the Greek Church, which may have 
been (in the King’s opinion) imbibed while the astrologer was studying his art 
with the Armenian abbot of Istrahoff, and the Greek Dubravius (see close of 
Chapter XIII.). 

'^Confidants, etc. See Note 27 .—Prayer of Louis XI. 




Quentin Durward 431 

may either live or die; but I would not willingly die an 
ungrateful man., or leave, so far as the saints may place it in 
my power, either a friend or an enemy unrecompensed. Now, 
I have a friend to be rewarded, that is thyself—an enemy to 
be punished according to his deserts and that is the base, 
treacherous villain, Martins Galeotti, who, by his impostures 
and specious falsehoods, has trained me hither into the power 
of my mortal enemy, with as firm a purpose of my destruction 
as ever butcher had of slaying the beast which he drove to the 
shambles.” 

“I will challenge him on that quarrel, since they say he is 
a fighting blade, though he looks somewhat unwieldy,” said 
Le Balafre. “I doubt not but the Duke of Burgundy is so 
much a friend to men of the sword, that he will allow us a 
I fair field within some reasonable space; and if your Majesty 
live so long, and enjoy so much freedom, you shall behold me 
i do battle ia your right, and take as proper a vengeance on this 
i philosopher as your heart could desire.” 

, “I commend ^your bravery and your devotion to my 
' service,” said the King. “But this treacherous villain is a 
stout man-at-arms, and I would not willingly risk thy life,, my 
brave soldier.” 

“I were no brave soldier, if it please your Majesty,” said 
Balafre, “if I dare not face a better man than he. A fine 
thing it would be for me, who can neither read nor write, to 
! be afraid of a fat lurdane,^ who has done little else all his 
j life!” 

“Nevertheless,” said the King, “it is not our pleasure so to 
put thee in venture, Balafre. This traitor comes hither, sum¬ 
moned by our command. We would have thee, so soon as 
thou canst find occasion, close up with him, and smite him 
under the fifth rib. Dost thou understand me?” 

“Truly I do,” answered Le Balafre; “but, if it please 
your Majesty, this is a matter entirely out of my^ course of 


^Lurdane. Blockhead. 



432 


Quentin Durward 

practice. I could not kill 5^ou a dog, unless it were in hot 
assault, or pursuit, or upon defiance given, or such like.” 

“Why sure thou dost not pretend to tenderness of heart?” ■ 
said the King; “thou who hast been first in storm and siege, 
and most eager, as men tell me,, on the pleasures and advant-,.; 
ages which are gained on such occasions by the rough heart,'.' 
and the bloody hand ?” , 

“My lord,” answered Le Balafre, “I have neither feared ' 
nor spared your enemies, sword in hand. And an assault is a ‘ 
desji>erate matter, under risks which raise a man’s blood so, i 
that, by St. Andrew, it will not settle for an hour or two, 
which I call a fair license for plundering after a storm. And 
God pity us poor soldiers, who are first driven mad with 
danger, and then madder with victory. I have heard of a 
legion consisting entirely of saints; and methinks it would 
take them all to pray and intercede for the rest of the army, 
and for all who wear plumes and corslets, buff-coats and 
broadswords. But what your Majesty purposes is out of my 
course of practice, though I will never deny that it has been 
wide enough. As for the astrologer, if he be a traitor, let him 
e en die a traitor’s death. I will neither meddle nor make 
with it. Your ^Majesty has your provost and two of his 
rnarshals-men without, who are more fitted for dealing with , 
him than a Scottish gentleman of my family and standing in 
the service.” 

“You say well,” said the King; “but at least, it belongs 
to thy duty to prevent interruption, and to guard the execu- 
tion of my most just sentence.” 

“I will do so against all Peronne,” said Le Balafre. “Your 
Majesty need not doubt my fealty in that which I can recon¬ 
cile to my conscience, which, for mine own convenience and 
the service of your royal Majesty, I can vouch to be a pretty 
large one at least, I know I have done some deeds for your 
-Majesty, which I would rather have eaten a handful of my 
own dagger than I would have done for any else.” 

“Let that rest,” said the King; “and hear you; when 




433 


Quentin Durward 


Galeotti is admitted, and the door shut on him, do you stand 
to your weapon, and guard the entrance on the inside of the 
apartment. Let no one intrude; that is all I require of you. 
Go hence, and send the provost-marshal to me.” 

Balafre left the apartment accordingly, and in a minute 
afterwards Tristan I’Hermite entered from the hall. 

“Welcome, gossip,” said the King; “what thinkest thou of 
our situation?” 

“As of men sentenced to death,” said the provost-marshal, 
“unless there come a reprieve from the Duke.” 

“Reprieved or not, he that decoyed us into this snare shall 
go our fourrier to the next world, to take up lodgings for 
us,” said the King, with a grisly and ferocious smile. “Tris¬ 
tan, thou hast done many an act of brave justice: finis I 
I should have said funis— coronat opus} Thou must stand by 
me to the end.” 

I “I will, my liege,” said Tristan; “I am but a plain fellow, 

I but I am grateful. I will do my duty within these walls, or 
I elsewhere; and while I live, your Majesty’s breath shall pour 
as potential a note of condemnation, and your sentence be 
as literally executed, as when you sat on your own throne. 

I They may deal with me the next hour for it if they will, I 

■ care not.” , ,, 

“It is even what I expected of thee, my loving gossip,^ 

' said Louis; “but hast thou good assistance? The traitor is 
I strong and able-bodied, and will doubtless be clamorous for 
I aid. The Scot will do naught but keep the door; and well 
that he can be brought to that by flattery and humouring. 
Then Oliver is good for nothing but lying, flattering, and 
suggesting dangerous counsel; and. Ventre Saint-dieuI^ I 
think is more like one day to deserve the halter himself than 
to use it to another. Have you men, think you, and means, 
to make sharp and sure work?” 


iFunis—eomnal c,ptts. The King humorously changes the first word of the 
classic proverb: ° The Ld (finis) -I should have said the rope (/»««) -crowns the 
work.” 

^Ventre Saint-dieu. God’s body. 




434 


Quentin Durward 


“1 have Trois-Eschelles and Petit-Andre with me,” said 
he; “men so expert in their office that out of three men they 
would hang up one ere his two companions were aware. And 
we have all resolved to live or die with your Majesty, know’- 
ing we shall have as short breath to draw when you are gone 
as ever fell to the lot of any of our patients. But what is to 
be our present subject, an it please your Majesty? I love to be 
sure of my man; for, as your Majesty is pleased sometimes to 
remind me, I have now and then mistaken the criminal, and 
strung up in his place an honest labourer, who had given your 
Majesty no offence.” 

“Most true,” said die other. “Know then, Tristan, that 
the condemned person is Martius Galeotti. You start, but it 
IS even as I say. The villain has trained us all hither by false 
and treacherous representations, that he might put us into the 
hands of the Duke of Burgundy without defence.” 

“But not without vengeance!” said Tristan; “were it the' 
last act of my life, I would sting him home like an expiring 
wasp, should I be crushed to pieces on the next instant!” 

“I know thy trusty spirit,” said the King, “and the 
pleasure which, like other good men, thou dost find in the 
discharge of thy duty, since virtue, as the schoolmen say, is 
Its own reward. But away, and prepare the priests, for the 
victim approaches.” 


“Would you have ft done in your own presence, m\ 
gracious liege?” said Tristan. ' 

Louis declined this offer; but charged the provost-marshal 
to have everything ready for the punctual execution of hi^ 
commands the moment the astrologer left his apartment; 

for, said the King, I will see the villain once more, just tc 
observe how he bears himself toward the master whom he has 
ed into the toils. I shall love to see the sense of approaching 
death strike the colour from that ruddy cheek, and dim that 
eye which laughed as it lied. O that there were but another 
o im, whose counsels aided his prognostications! But if ) 
survive this—look to your scarlet, my Lord Cardinal! for 




Quentin Durward 


435 


Rome shall scarce protect you—be it spoken under favour of 
St. Peter and the blessed Lady of Clery, who is all over 
mercy. Why do you tarry? Go get your grooms ready. I 
expect the villain instantly. I pray to Heaven he take not 
fear and come not! that were indeed a baulk. Begone, Tris¬ 
tan ; thou were not wont to be so slow when business was to 
be done.” 

“On the contrary, an it like your Majesty, you were ever 
wont to say that I was too fast, and mistook your purpose, 
and did the job on the wrong subject. Now, please your 
Majesty to give me a sign, just when you part with Galeotti 
for the night whether the business goes on or no. I have 
known your Majesty once or twice change your mind, and 
blame me for over-despatch.” ^ 

“Thou suspicious creature,” answered King Louis, “I tell 
thee I will not change my mind. But to silence thy remon¬ 
strances, observe, if I say to the knave at parting, ‘There is a 
Heaven above usl’ then let the business go on; but if^I say, 
‘Go in peace,’you wdll understand that my purpose is altered.” 

“My head is somewhat of the dullest out of my own 
department,” said Tristan I’Hermite. “Stay, let me rehearse. 
If you bid him depart in peace, I am to have him dealt upon?” 

“No, no,—idiot, no!” said the King; “in that case you let 
him pass free. But if I say, 'There is a heaven above us!' up 
with him a yard or two nearer the planets he is so conversant 
with.” 

“I wish we may have the means here,” said the provost. 

“Then up with him or doivn with him, it matters not 
which,” answered the King, grimly smiling. 

“And the body,” said the provost,“ how shall we dispose 
of it?” 

“Let me see an instant,” said the King; “the windows of 
the hall are too narrow; but that projecting oriel is wide 
enough. We will over with him into the Somme, and put a 
paper on his breast, with the legend, ‘Let the justice cf 

^Over-dispatch. See Note 28.— Louis's Vengeance. 


436 


Quentin Durward ; 

King pass toll-free.’ Tlie Duke’s officers may seize it for , 
duties if they dare.” / j 

The provost-marshal left the apartment of Louis, and 2 
summoned his two assistants to council in an embrasure in the 
great hall, where Trois-Eschelles stuck a torch against the I 
wall to give them light. They discoursed in whispers, little 1 
noticed by Oliver le Dain, who seemed sunk in dejection, and i 
Le Balafre, who was fast asleep. | 

“Comrades,” said the provost to his executioners, “perhaps * 
you have thought that our vocation was over, or that, at least, 
we were more likely to be the subjects of the duty of others ’ 
than to have any more to discharge on pur own parts. But j 
courage, my mates! our gracious master has reserved for us ' 
one noble cast of our office, and it must be gallantly executed, < 
as by men who would live in history.” - I 

“Ay, I guess how it is,” said Trois-Eschelles; “our patron i 
is like the old kaisers of Rome, who, when things came to an 
extremity, or, as we would say, to the ladder-foot with them, 
were wont to select from their own ministers of justice some 
experienced person, who might spare their sacred persons from 
the awkward attempts of a novice or blunderer in our mystery. 

It was a pretty custom for ethnics ; ^ but, as a good Catholic, I i 
should make some scruple at laying hands on the Most | 
Christian King.” 

“Nay, but, brother, 3^011 are ever too scrupulous,” said ■ 
Petit-Andre. “If he issues word and warrant for his own 
execution, I see not how we can in duty dispute it. He that . 
dwells at Rome must obey the Pope: the marshals-men must 
do their master’s bidding, and he the King’s.” 

“Hush, you knaves!” said the provost-marshal, “there is 
here no purpose concerning the King’s person, but only that of /fl 
the Greek heretic pagan and Mahomedan wizard, Martins 
Galeotti.” 

“Galeotti!” answered Petit-Andre; “that comes quite ^ 
natural. I never knew one of these legerdemain fellows who ♦ 

^Ethnics. Pagans, heretics. . : 




437 


Quentin Durward 

pass their life, as one may say, in dancing upon a tight-rope, 
but what they came at length to caper at the end of one— 
tchick!” 

“My only concern is,” said Trois-Eschelles, looking up¬ 
wards, “that the poor creature must die without confession.” 

“Tush! tush!” said the provost-marshal, in reply, “he is a 
rank heretic and necromancer: a whole college of priests 
could not absolve him from the doom he has deserved. Besides, 
if he hath a fancy that way, thou hast a gift, Trois-Eschelles, 
to serve him for ghostly father thyself. But, what is more 
material, I fear you must use your poniards,, my mates; for 
you have not here the fitting conveniences for the exercise of 
your profession.” 

“Now our Lady of the Isle of Paris forbid,” said Trois- 
Eschelles, “that the King’s command should find me destitute 
of my tools! I always wear around my body St. Francis’s 
cord, doubled four times, with a handsome loop at the further 
end of it; for I am of the company of St. Francis, and may 
wear his cowl when I am in extremis,^ I thank God and the 
good fathers of Saumur.” 

“And for me,” said Petit-Andre, “I have always in my 
budget a handy block and sheaf, or a pulley as they call it, with 
a strong screw for securing it where I list, in case we should 
travel where trees are scarce, or high-branched from the 
ground. I have found it a great convenience.” 

“That will suit as well,” said the provost-marshal; “you 
have but to screw your pulley into yonder beam above the door, 
and pass the rope over it. I will keep the fellow in some con¬ 
versation near the spot until you adjust the noose under his 
chin, and then-” 

“And then we run up the rope,” said Petit-Andre, “and, 
tchick! our astrologer is so far in Heaven that he hath not a 
foot on earth.” 

“But these gentlemen,” said Trois-Eschelles, looking 


i/w extremis. At the last gasp. 



438 


Quentin Durward 

towards the chimney, “do not these help, and so take n 
handsel ^ of our vocation ?” 

“Hem, no,” answered the provost, “the”barber only cjA'' 
trives mischief, which he leaves other men to execute; and foi 
the Scot, he keeps the door when the deed is a-doing, wh?cK 
he hath not spirit or quickness sufficient to partake in mort , 
actively; every one to his trade.” » 

With infinite dexterity, and even a sort of professional, j 
delight, which sweetened the sense of their own precarious ' 
situation, the worthy executioners of the provost’s mandates 
adapted their rope and pulley for putting in force the sentence 
which had been uttered against Galeotti by the captive mom- 
arch, seeming to rejoice that that last action was to be one siv 
consistent.with their past life. Tristan I’Hermite” sat eyeing, 
their proceedings with a species of satisfaction; while Olivpi 
paid no attention to them whatever; and Ludovic Lesly, ’A, 
awaked by the bustle, he looked upon them at all, considered 
them as engaged in matters entirely unconnected with hfs ov/n 
duty, and for which he was not to be regarded as responsible 
in one way or other. 

^Handsel. Earnest-money. 

^Tristan I’Hermite. See Note 29 at end of the novel. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 


RECRIMINATION 

Thy time is not yet out: the devil thou servest 
Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids 
The friends who drudge for him, as the blind man 
Was aided by the guide, who lent his shoulder 
O’er rough and smooth, until he reach’d the brink 
Of the fell precipice, then hurl’d him downward. 

Old Play. 

When obeying the command, or rather the request, of 
Louis, for he was in circumstances in which, though a mon¬ 
arch, he could only request Le Glorieux to go in search of 
Martius Galeotti, the jester had no trouble in executing his 
commission, betaking himself at once to the best tavern in 
Peronne, of which he himself was rather more than an occa¬ 
sional frequenter, being a great admirer -of that species of 
liquor which reduced all other men’s brains to a level with 
his owm. 

He found, or rather observed, the astrologer in the corner 
of the public drinking-room—“stove,” ^ as it is called in 
German and Flemish, from its principal furniture—sitting in 
close colloquy with a female in a singular, and something like 
a Moorish or Asiatic garb., who, as Le Glorieux approached 
Martius, rose as in the act to depart.” 

“These,” said the stranger, “are news on which you may 
rely with absolute certainty;” and with that disappeared 
among the crowd of guests who sat grouped at different tables 
in the apartment. 

“Cousin philosopher,” said the jester, presenting himself, 
“Heaven no sooner relieves one sentinel than it sends another 

1 “Stove ” as it is called. The German word for a small room is Stube, which 
meant originally a heated room, or a bath; our word stove is a derivative. 


440 


Quentin Durward 


to supply the place. One fool being gone, here I come another, 
to guide you to the apartments of Louis of France.” 

“And art thou the messenger?” said Martius, gazing on 
him with prompt apprehension, and discovering at once the 
jester’s quality, though less intimated, as Ave have before 
noticed, than was usual by his external appearance. 

“Ay, sir, and like your learning,” answered Le Glorieux; 
“when powder sends folly to entreat the approach of wisdom, 
’tis a sure sign w^hat foot the patient halts upon.” 

“How if I refuse to come, when summoned at so late an 
hour by such a messenger?” said Galeotti. 

“In that case wg will consult your ease, and carry you,” 
said Le Glorieux. “Here are half a score of stout Bur¬ 
gundian yeomen at the door, with whom he of Crevecoeur has 
furnished me to that effect. For know that my friend Charles 
of Burgundy and I have not taken away our kinsman Louis’s 
crown, which he was ass enough to put into our power, but 
have only filed and dipt it a little; and, though reduced to 
the size of a spangle, it is still pure gold. In plain terms, he 
is still paramount over his own people, yourself included, and 
Most Christian King of the old dining-hall in the Castle of 
Pdonne, to wLich you, as his liege subject, are presently 
obliged to repair.” 

“I attend you, sir,” said Martius Galeotti^ and accom¬ 
panied Le Glorieux accordingly, seeing, perhaps,, that no 
evasion w^as possible. 

“Ay, sir,” said the fool as they went towards the castle, 
“you do w'ell; for we treat our kinsman as men use an old 
famished lion in his cage, and thrust him now and then a calf 
to mumble, to keep his old jaws in exercise.” 

“Do you mean,” said Martius, “that the King intends me 
bodily injury?” 

“Nay, that you can guess better than I,” said the jester; 
“for though the night be cloucTy, I warrant 3 -ou can see the 
stars through the mist. I know nothing of the matter, not I; 





Quentin Durward 4-+i 

only my mother always told me to go warily near an old rat 
in a trap, for he was never so much disposed to bite.” 

The astrologer asked no more questions; and Le Glorieux, 
according to the custom of those of his class, continued to run 
on in a wild and disordered strain of sarcasm and folly 
mingled together, until he delivered the philosopher to the 
guard at the castle gate of Peronne, where he was passed 
from warder to warder, and at length admitted within Her¬ 
bert’s Tower. 

The hints of the jester had not been lost on Martius Gale- 
otti, and he saw something which seemed to confirm them in 
the look and manner of Tristan, whose mode of addressing 
him, as he marshalled him to the King’s bedchamber, was 
lowering, sullen and ominous. A close observer of what passed 
on earth, as well as among the heavenly bodies, the pulley and 
the rope also caught the astrologer’s eye; and as the latter 
was in a state of vibration, he concluded that some one who 
had been busy adjusting it had been interrupted in the work 
by his sudden arrival. All this he saw, and summoned together 
his subtilty to evade the impending danger, resolved, should 
he find that impossible, to defend himself to the last against 
whomsoever should assail him. 

Thus resolved, and with a step and look corresponding to 
the determination he had taken, Martius presented himself 
before Louis, alike unabashed at the miscarriage of his predic¬ 
tions, and undismayed at the monarch’s anger and its probable 
consequences. 

“Every good planet be gracious to your Majesty!” said 
Galeotti, with an inclination almost Oriental in manner. 
“Every evil constellation withhold their influences from my 
royal master!” 

“Methinks,” replied the King, “that when you look around 
this apartment, when you think where it is situated, and how 
guarded, your wisdom might consider that my propitious stars 
had proved faithless, and that each evil conjunction had 
already done its worst. Art thou not ashamed, Martius Gale- 




442 


Quentin Durward 


otti, to see me here and a prisoner, when you recollect by what j 
assurances I was lured hither?” I 

“And art thou not ashamed, my ro3^al sire?” replied the ; 
philosopher, “thou whose step in science was so forward, thy Sii 
apprehension so quick, thy perseverance so unceasing,—art j 
thou not ashamed to turn from the first frown of fortune, J 
like a craven from the first clash of arms? Didst thou pro- > 
pose to become participant of those mj^steries which raise men || 
above the passions, the mischances, the pains, the sorrows of 
life, a state only to be attained by rivalling the firmness of the \ 
ancient Stoic; and dost thou shrink from the first pressure of H 
adversity, and forfeit the glorious prize for which thou didst 
start as a competitor, frightened out of the course, like a ■ 
scared racer, by shadowy and unreal evils?” ' 

“Shadowy and unreal! frontless as thou art!” exclaimed ' 
the King, “is this dungeon unreal? the weapons of the guards •, 
of my detested enemy Burgundy, which you may hear clash i 
at the gate, are those shadows ? What, traitor, are real evils, i 
if imprisonment, dethronement,, and danger of life are not so ?” 

“Ignorance — ignorance, my brother, and prejudice,” ’ 
answered the sage with great firmness, “are the only real ; 
evils. Believe me, that kings in the plenitude of power, if '| 
immersed in ignorance and prejudice, are less free than sages j 
in a dungeon and loaded with material chains. Towards this ' 
true happiness it is mine to guide j ou; be it yours to attend to i 
my instructions.” ' j 

“And it is to such philosophical freedom that 5^our lessons 1 
would have guided me?” said the King, very bitterly. “I I 
would you had told me at Plessis that the dominion promised ! 
me so liberally was an empire over my own passions; that the 
success of which I was assured related to my progress in 
philosophy; and that I might become as wise and as learned 
as a strolling mountebank of Italy! I might surely have ‘ 
attained this mental ascendency at a more moderate price than 
that of forfeiting the fairest crown in Christendom and becom- • 


I 





443 


R 

Quentin Durward 

j| ing tenant of a dungeon in Peronne! Go, sir, and think not 
5 to escape condign punishment. There is a Heaven above iisT 

! “I leave you not to your fate,” replied Martius, “until I 
have vindicated, even in your eyes, darkened as they are, that 
reputation, a brighter gem than the brightest in thy crown, 
and at which the world shall wonder ages after all the race of 
Capet are mouldered into oblivion in the charnels of St. 
Denis.” ^ 

“Speak on,,” said Louis, “thine impudence cannot make me 
' change my purposes or my opinion. Yet as I may never again 
i pass judgment as a king, I will not censure thee unheard. 
I" Speak, then, though the best thou canst say will be to speak 
y the truth. Confess that I am a dupe, thou an impostor, thy 
pretended science a dream, and the planets which shine above 
us as little influential of our destiny as their shadows, when 
- reflected in the river, are capable of altering its course.” 

“And how know^’st thou,” answered the astrologer, boldly, 
“the secret influence of yonder blessed lights? Speak’st thou 
of their inability to influence waters, when yet thou know’st 
that even the weakest, the moon herself,—weakest because 
nearest this wretched earth of ours,—holds under her domina¬ 
tion, not such poor streams as the Somme, but the tides of the 
mighty ocean itself, which ebb and increase as he^r disk waxes 
and wanes, and watch her influence as a slave waits the nod of 
a sultana? And now, Louis of VYlois, answer my parable in 
turn. Confess, art thou not like the foolish passenger, who 
becomes wroth with his pilot because he cannot bring the vessel 
into harbour without experiencing occasionally the adverse 
force of winds and currents ? I could indeed point to thee the 
probable issue of thine enterprise as prosperous, but it was in 
the power of Heaven alone to conduct thee thither; and if the 
path be rough and dangerous, was it in my power to smooth 
or render it more safe? Where is thy wisdom of yesterday, 

^Charnels of St. Denis. The kings of France, descendants of Hugh Capet 
(d.996), were buried in the vaults of St. T:)enis, the abbey church in the suburbs 
of Paris. 




444 


Quentin DuRWard 

which taught thee so truly to discern that the ways of destiny 
are often ruled to our advantage, though in opposition to our 
wishes ?” 

“You remind me—^mu remind me,” said the King, hastily, 
“of one specific falsehood. You foretold yonder Scot should 
accomplish his enterprise fortunately for my interest and 
honour; and thou knowest it has so terminated that no more 
mortal injury could I have received than from the impression 
which the issue of that affair is like to make on the excited 
brain of the Mad Bull of Burgundy. This is a direct false¬ 
hood. Thou canst plead no evasion here, canst refer to no 
remote favourable turn of the tide, for which, like an idiot, 
sitting on the bank until the river shall pass away, thou 
wouldst have me wait contentedly. Here thy craft deceived 
thee. Thou wert weak enough to make a specific prediction, 
which has proved directly false.” 

“Which will prove most firm and true,” answered the 
astrologer, boldly. “I would desire no greater triumph of art 
over ignorance than that prediction and its accomplishment 
will afford. I told thee he would be faithful in any honour¬ 
able commission. Hath he not been so? I told thee he would 
be scrupulous in aiding any evil enterprise. Hath he not 
proved so? If you doubt it, go ask the Bohemian, Hayraddin 
Maugrabin.” 

The King here coloured deeply with shame and anger. 

“I told thee,” continued the astrologer, “that the con¬ 
junction of planets under which he set forth augured danger 
to the person; and hath not his path been beset by danger? I 
told thee that it augured an advantage to the sender, and of 
that thou wilt soon have the benefit.” 

“Soon have the benefit!” exclaimed the King; “have I not 
the result already, in disgrace and imprisonment?” 

“No,” answered the astrologer, “the end is not as yet; 
thine own tongue shall ere long confess the benefit which thou 
hast received from the manner in which the messenger bore 
himself in discharging thy commission.” 



445 


Quentin Durward 

“This is too—too insolent,” said the King, “at once to 

deceive and to insult-. But hence! think not my wrongs 

shall be unavenged. There is a Heaven above us!” 

Galeotti turned to depart. “Yet stop,” said Louis; “thou 
bearest thy imposture bravely out. Let me hear your answer 
to one question, and think ere you speak. Can thy pretended 
skill ascertain the hour of thine own death?” 

“Onlv by referring to the fate of another,” said Galeotti. 

“I understand not thine answer,” said Louis. 

“Know then, O King,” said Martins, “that this only I can 
tell with certainty concerning mine own death, that it shall 
take place exactly twenty-four hours before that of your 
Majesty.” ^ 

“Ha! say’st thou?” said Louis, his countenance again 
altering. “Hold—hold—go not—wait one moment. Saidst 
thou, ?ny death shall follow thine so closely?” 

“Within the space of twenty-four hours,” repeated Gale¬ 
otti, firmly, “if there be one sparkle of true divination in those 
bright and mysterious intelligences, which speak, each on their 
courses, though without a tongue. I wish your Majesty good 
rest.” 

“Hold—hold—go not,” said the King, taking him by the 
arm and leading him from the door. “Martins Galeotti, I 
have been a kind master to thee—enriched thee—made thee 
my friend—my companion—the instructor of my studies. Be 
open with me, I entreat you. Is there aught in this art of 
yours in very deed? Shall this Scot’s mission be, in fact, 
propitious to me? And is the measure of our lives so very— 
very nearly matched? Confess, my good Martins, you speak 
after the trick of your trade. Confess, I pray you, and you 
shall have no displeasure at my hand. I am in years—a 
prisoner—likely to be deprived of a kingdom; to one in my 
condition truth is worth kingdoms, and it is from thee, dearest 
?Iartius, that I must look for this inestimable jewel.” 

“And I have laid it before your Majesty,” said Galeotti, 

SefoTe that of your Majesty. See Note ZO.—Prediction of Louis \ I s Death. 



446 Quentin Durward 

“at the risk that, in brutal passion, you might turn upon me 
and rend me.” 

“Who, I, Galeotti?” replied Louis, mildly. “Alas! thou 
mistakest me 1 Am I not captive, and should not I be patient, 
especially since my anger can only show my impotence? Tell 
me then in sincerity, have 3'ou fooled me, or is your science 
true, and do you truly report it?” 

“Your Majesty will forgive me if I reply to you,” said 
Martius Galeotti,, “that time only—time and the event—will 
convince incredulity. It suits ill the place of confidence which 
I have held at the council-table of the renowned conqueror, 
Matthias Corvinus of Hungarj^—nay, in the cabinet of the 
Emperor himself—to reiterate assurances of that which I have 
advanced as true. If you will not believe me, I can but refer 
to the course of events. A day or two day’s patience will 
prove or disprove what I have averred concerning the young 
Scot; and I will be contented to die on the wheel,^ and have 
my limbs broken joint by joint, if your Majesty have not 
advantage, and that in a most important degree, from the 
dauntless conduct of that Quentin Durward. But if I were 
to die under such tortures, it would be well your Majesty 
should seek a ghostly father; “ for from the moment my last 
groan is drawn only twenty-four hours will remain to you for 
confession and penitence.” 

Louis continued to keep hold of Galeotti’s robe as he led 
him towards the door, and pronounced as he opened it, in a 
loud voice, “To-morrow we’ll talk more of this. Go in peace, 
my learned father —go in peace—go in peaceT 

He repeated these words three times; and, still afraid that 
the provost-marshal might mistake his purpose, he led the 
astrologer into the hall, holding fast his robe, as if afraid that 
he should be torn from him and put to death before his eyes. 
He did not unloose his grasp until he had not only repeated 

^ wheel- A method of torture in the Middle Ages; the victim w.-e 
Bound to a wheel and his limbs were broken by blows from an iron bar. 

^Ghostly father. Spiritual father, a priest. 



Quentin Durward 


447 


again and again the gracious phrase, “Go in peace,” but even 
made a private signal to the provost-marshal, to enjoin a sus¬ 
pension of all proceedings against the person of the astrologer. 

Thus did the possession of some secret information, joined 
to audacious courage and readiness of wit, save Galeotti from 
the most imminent danger; and thus was Louis, the most 
sagacious as well as the most vindictive amongst the monarchs 
of the period, cheated of his revenge by the influence of super¬ 
stition upon a selfish temper, and a mind to which, from the 
consciousness of many crimes, the fear of death was peculiarly 
terrible. 

He felt, however, considerable mortification at being 
obliged to relinquish his purposed vengeance; and the disap¬ 
pointment seemed to be shared by his satellites, to whom the 
execution was to have been committed. Le Balafre alone, 
perfectly indifferent on the subject, so soon as the counter¬ 
manding signal was given, left the door at which he had 
posted himself, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. 

The provost-marshal, as the group reclined themselves to 
repose in the hall after the King retired to his bedchamber, 
continued to eye the goodly form of the astrologer, with the 
look of the mastiff watching a joint of meat which the cook 
had retrieved from his jaws, while his attendants communi¬ 
cated to each other in brief sentences their characteristic 
sentiments. 

“The poor blinded necromancer,” whispered Trois- 
EsChelles, with an air of spiritual unction and commiseration, 
to his comrade Petit-Andre, “hath lost the fairest chance of 
expiating some of his vile sorceries, by dying through means 
of the cord of the blessed St. Francis! and I had purpose, 
indeed, to leave the comfortable noose around his neck, to 
scare the foul fiend from his unhappy carcass.” 

“And I,” said Petit-Andre, “have missed the rarest oppor¬ 
tunity of knowing how far a weight of seventeen stone will 
stretch a three-plied cord! It would have been a glorious 




448 Quentin Durward 

experiment in our line,, and the jolly old boy would have died 
so easily!” 

While this whispered dialogue was going forward, Martins, 
who had taken the opposite side of the huge stone fireplace, 
round which the whole group was assembled, regarded them 
askance and with a look of suspicion. He first put his hand 
into his vest, and satisfied himself that the handle of a very 
sharp double-edged poniard, which he always carried about 
him, was disposed conveniently for his grasp; for, as we have 
already noticed, he was, though now somewhat unwieldy, a 
powerful, athletic man, and prompt and active at the use of 
his weapon. Satisfied that this trusty instrument was in readi¬ 
ness, he next took from his bosom a scroll of parchment, 
inscribed with Greek.characters and marked with cabalistic 
signs, drew together the wood in the fireplace, and made a 
blaze by which he could distinguish the features and attitude 
of all who sat or lay around: the heavy and deep slumbers of 
the Scottish soldier, who lay motionless, with his rough 
countenance as immovable as if it were cast in bronze; the 
pale and anxious face of Oliver, who at one time assumed the 
.appearance of slumber, and again opened his eyes and raised 
his head hastily, as if stung by some internal throe, or 
awakened by some distant sound; the discontented, savage, 
bull-dog aspect of the provost, who looked 

Frustrate of his will, 

Not half sufficed, and greedy yet to kill; 

while the background was filled up by the ghastly hypocritical 
countenance, of Trois-Eschelles, whose eyes were cast up 
towards Heaven, as if he was internally saying his devotions; 
and the grim drollery of Petit-Andre, who amused himself 
with mimicking the gestures and wry faces of his comrade 
before he betook himself to sleep. 

Amidst these vulgar and ignoble countenances, nothing 
could show to greater advantage than the stately form, hand¬ 
some mien, and commanding features of the astrologer, who 



Quentin Durward 449 

might have passed for one of the ancient magi, imprisoned in a 
den of robbers, and about to invoke a spirit to accomplish his 
liberation. And, indeed, had he been distinguished by nothing 
else than the beauty of the graceful and flowdng beard which 
descended over the mysterious roll which he held in his hand, 
one might have been pardoned for regretting that so noble an 
appendage had been bestowed on one who put both talents,, 
learning, and the advantages of eloquence, and a majestic 
person, to the mean purposes of a cheat and an impostor. 

Thus passed the night in Count Herbert’s Tower, in the 
Castle of Peronne. When the first light of dawn penetrated 
the ancient Gothic chamber, the King summoned Oliver to his 
presence, who found the monarch sitting in his nightgown, 
and was astonished at the alteration which one night of mortal 
anxiety had made in his looks. He would have expressed 
some anxiety on the subject, but the King silenced him by 
entering into a statement of the various modes by which he 
had previously endeavoured to form friends at the court of 
Burgundy, and which Oliver was charged to prosecute so 
soon as he should be permitted to stir abroad. And never was 
that wily minister more struck with the clearness of the 
King’s intellect, and his intimate knowledge of all the springs 
which influence human action, than he was during that 
memorable consultation. 

About two hours afterwards, Oliver accordingly obtained 
permission from the Count of Crevecoeur to go out and 
execute the commissions which his master had entrusted him 
with; and Louis, sending for the astrologer, in whom he 
seemed to have renewed his faith, held with him, in like man¬ 
ner, a long consultation, the issue of which appeared to give 
him more spirits and confidence than he had at first exhibited ; 
so that he dressed himself, and received the morning compli¬ 
ments of Crevecoeur with a calmness at which the Burgundian 
lord could not help wondering, the rather that he had already 
heard that the Duke had passed several hours in a state of 
mind which seemed to render the King’s safety very precarious. 




V, 


CHAPTER XXX, 

UNCERTAINTY 

Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark, 

That reels amid the strife of meeting currents. 

Old Play. 

If the night passed by Louis was carefully anxious and 
agitated, that spent by the Duke of Burgundy, who had at no 
time the same mastery over his passions, and, indeed, who 
permitted them almost a free and uncontrolled dominion over 
his actions, was still more disturbed. 

According to the custom of the period, two of his principal 
and m.ost favoured counsellors, D’Hyrnbercourt and Des 
Comines, shared his bedchamber, couches being prepared for 
them near the bed of the prince. Their attendance was never 
more necessary than upon this night, when, distracted by 
sorrow, by passion, by the desire of revenge, and by the sense 
of honour., which forbade him to exercise it upon Louis in his 
present condition, the Duke s mind resembled a volcano in 
eruption, w’hich throws forth all the different contents of the 
mountain, mingled and molten into one burning mass. 

He refused to throw off his clothes, or to make any prepa¬ 
ration for sleep; but spent the night in a succession of the 
most violent bursts of passion. In some paroxysms he talked 
incessantly to his attendants so thick and so rapidly, that they 
were really afraid his senses would give way; choosing for his 
theme the merits and the kindness of heart of the murdered 
Bishop of Liege, and recalling all the instances of mutual 
kindness, affection, and confidence which had passed between 
them, until he had worked himself into such a transport of 
grief that he threw himself upon his face in the bed, and 
seemed ready to choke with the sobs and tears which he 


450 




45 


I 

I Quentin Durward 

i endeavoured to stifle. Then starting from the couch, he gave 
j vent at once to another and more furious mood, and traversed 
the room hastily, uttering incoherent threats, and still more 
incoherent oaths of vengeance, while, stamping with his foot, 
according to his customary action, he invoked St. George, St. 
Andrew, and whomsoever else he held most holy, to bear wit- 
i ness that he would take bloody vengeance on De la Marck, on 
the people of Liege, and on him who was the author of the 
i whole. These last threats, uttered more obscurely than the 
others, obviously concerned the person of the King; and at 
one time the Duke expressed his determination to send for the 
Duke of Normandy, the brother of the King, and with whom 
Louis was on the worst terms, in order to compel the captive 
monarch to surrender either the crown itself, or some of its 
most valuable rights and appanages. 

Another day and night passed in the same stormy and 
fitful deliberations, or rather rapid transitions of passion; for 
the Duke scarcely ate or drank, never changed his dress, and, 
altogether, demeaned himself like one in whom rage might 
terminate in utter insanity. By degrees he became more com¬ 
posed, and began to hold, from time to time, consultations 
with his ministers, in which much was proposed, but nothing 
resolved on. Comines assures us that at one time a courier 
was mounted in readiness to depart for the purpose of sum¬ 
moning the Duke of Normandy; and in that event the prison 
of the French monarch would probably have been found, as in 
similar cases, a brief road to his grave. 

At other times, when Charles had exhausted his fury, he 
sat with his features fixed in stern and rigid immobility, like 
one who broods over some desperate deed to whicjh he is as yet 
unable to work up his resolution. And unquestionably it 
would have heeded little more than an insidious hint from 
any of the counsellors who attended his person, to have 
pushed the Duke to some very desperate action. But the 
nobles of Burgundy, from the sacred character attached to the 
person of a king and a lord paramount, and from a regard to 


452 


Quentin Durward 

the public faith, as well as that of their Duke, which had been 
pledged when Louis threw himself into their powTr, were 
almost unanimously inclined to recommend moderate mea¬ 
sures; and the arguments w’hich D’Hymbercourt and Des 
Comines had now and then ventured to insinuate during the 
night were, in the cooler hours of the next morning, advanced 
and urged by Crevecoeur and others. Possibly their zeal in 
behalf of the King might not be entirely disinterested. Many, 
as we have mentioned, had already experienced the bounty of 
the King; others had either estates or pretensions in France, 
Avhich placed them a little under his influence; and it is certain 
that the treasure, which had loaded four mules when the King 
entered Peronne, became much lighter in the course of these 
negotiations. 

In the course of the third day the Count of Campo-basso 
brought his Italian wit to assist the counsels of Charles; and 
well was it for Louis that he had not arrived when the- Duke 
was in his first fuVy. Immediately on his arrival, a regular 
meeting of the Duke’s counsellors was convened, for consider¬ 
ing the measures to be adopted in this singular crisis. 

On this occasion Campo-basso gave his opinion couched in 
the apologue of the traveller, the adder, and the fox; and 
reminded the Duke of the advice w'hich Reynard gave to the 
man, that he should crush his mortal enemy, now that chance 
had placed his fate at his disposal. Des Comines, who saw the 
Duke’s eyes sparkle at a proposal which his own violence of 
temper had already repeatedly suggested, hastened to sta^ the 
possibility that Louis might not be, in fact, so directly acces¬ 
sory to the sanguinary action which had been committed at 
Schonw’aldt; that he might be able to clear himself of the 
imputation laid to his charge, and perhaps to make other 
atonement for the distractions which his intrigues had occa¬ 
sioned in the Duke’s dominions, and those of his allies; and 
that an act of violence perpetrated on the King was sure to 
bring both on France and Burgundy a train of the most 
unhappy consequences, among which not the least to be feared 





453 


Quentin Durward 

was, that the English might avail themselves of the commo¬ 
tions and civil discord which must needs ensue to repossess 
themselves of Normandy and Guyenne, and renew those dread¬ 
ful wars, which had only, and with difficulty been terminated 
by the union of both France and Burgundy against the com¬ 
mon enemy. Finally, he confessed, that he did not mean to 
urge the absolute and free dismissal of Louis; but only that 
the Duke should avail himself no farther of his present condi¬ 
tion than merely to establish a fair and equitable treaty 
between' the countries, with such security on the King’s part 
as should make it difficult for him to break his faith, or disturb 
the internal peace of Burgundy in future. D’Hymbercourt, 
Crevecoeur, and others signified their reprobation of the 
violent measures proposed by Campo-basso, and their opinion 
that in the way of treaty more permanent advantages could be 
obtained, and in a manner more honourable for Burgundy, 
than by an action which would stain her with a breach of 
faith and hospitality. 

The Duke listened to these arguments with his looks fixed 
on the ground, and his brows so knitted together as to bring 
his bushy eyebrows into one mass. But when Crevecoeur pro¬ 
ceeded to say that he did not believe Louis either knew of, or 
was accessory to the atrocious act of violence committed at 
Schonwaldt, Charles raised his head, and darting a fierce look 
at his counsellor, exclaimed, “Have you too, Crevecoeur, heard 
the gold of France clink? Methinks it rings in my councils 
as merrily as ever the bells of St. Denis. Dare any one say 
that Louis is not the fomenter of these feuds in Flanders?” 

“My gracious lord,” said Crevecoeur, “my hand has ever 
been more conversant with steel than with gold; and so far 
am I from holding that Louis is free from the charge of having 
caused the disturbances in Flanders, that it is not long since, 
in the face of his whole court, I charged him with that breach 
of faith, and offered him defiance in your name. But although 
his intrigues have been doubtless the original cause of these 
commotions, I am so far from believing that he authorised the 





454 


Quentin Durward 

death of the archbishop, that I believe one of his emissaries 
publicly protested against it; and I could produce the man, 
were it your Grace’s pleasure to see him.” 

“It is our pleasure,” said the Duke. “St. George! can you 
doubt that we desire to act justl\^? Even in the highest flight 
of our passion we are known for an upright and a just judge. 
We will see France ourself; we will ourself charge him 
with our wrongs, and ourself state to him the reparation 
which we expect and demand. If he should be found guiltless 
of this murder, the atonement for other crimes may be more 
easy. If he hath been guilty, who shall say that a life of , 
penitence in some retired monastery were not a most deserved 
and a most merciful doom? Who,” he added, kindling as he 
spoke—“who shall dare to blame a revenge yet more direct 
and more speedy? Let your witness attend. We will to the 
castle at the hour before noon. Some article we will minute 
down with which he shall comply, or woe on his head! others 
shall depend upon the proof. Break up the council and dis¬ 
miss yourselves. I will but change my dress, as this is scarce 
a fitting trim in which to wait on /riy most gracious sovereign/' 

With a deep and bitter emphasis on the last expression, the 
Duke arose and strode out of the room. 

“Louis’s safety, and what is worse, the honour of Bur¬ 
gundy, depend on a cast of the dice,” said D’Hymbercourt 
to Crevecoeur and to Des Comines. “Haste thee to the castle, 
Des Comines; thou hast a better filed tongue than either 
Crevecoeur or 1. Explain to Louis what storm is approach¬ 
ing; he will best know how to pilot himself. I trust this Life 
Guardsman will say nothing which can aggravate; for who 
knows what may have been the secret commission with which 
he was charged ?” 

“The young man,” said Crevecoeur, “seems bold, yet pru¬ 
dent and wary far beyond his years. In all which he said to 
me he was tender of the King’s character, as of that of the 
prince whom he serves. I trust he will be equally so in the 






Quentin Durward 455 

Duke’s presence. I must go seek him, and also the young 
Countess of Croye.” 

“The Countess! You told us you had left her at St. 
Bridget’s nunnery?” 

“Ay, but I was obliged,” said the count, “ to send for her 
express, by the Duke’s orders; and she has been brought Hither 
on a litter,, as being unable to travel otherwise. She was in a 
state of the deepest distress, both on account of the uncertainty 
, of the fate of her kinswoman, the Lady Hameline, and the 
gloom which overhangs her own, guilty as she has been of a 
feudal delinquency, in withdrawing herself from the pro- 
' tection of her liege lord, Duke Charles, who is not the person 
in the world most likely to view with indifference what 
trenches on his seigniorial rights.” 

The information that the young countess was in the hands 
of Charles added fresh and more pointed thorns to Louis’s 
reflections. He was conscious that, by explaining the intrigues 
by wTich he had induced the Lady Hameline and her to resort 
to Peronne [Plessis], she might supply that evidence which he 
had removed by the execution of Zamet Maugrabin ; and he 
knew well how much such proof of his having interfered with 
the rights of the Duke of Burgundy would furnish both motive 
and pretext for Charles’s availing himself to the uttermost of 
his present predicament. 

Louis discoursed on these matters with great anxiety to 
the Sieur Des Comines, whose acute and political talents 
better suited the King’s temper than the blunt, martial char¬ 
acter of Crevecoeur or the feudal haughtiness of D’Hymber- 
court. 

“These iron-handed soldiers, my good friend Comines,” 
he said to-his future historian, “should never enter a king’s 
' cabinet, but be left with the halberds and partisans in the 
ante-chamber. Their hands are indeed made for our use; but 
the monarch who puts their heads to any better occupation 
than that of anvils for his enemies’ swords and maces ranks 
with the fool who presented his mistress with a dog-leash for a 




456 


Quentin Durward 

carcanet. It is with such as thou, Philip, whose eyes are gifted 
with the quick and keen sense that sees beyond the exterior 
surface of affairs, that princes should share their council-table,, 
their cabinet—what do I say?—the most secret recesses of 
their soul.” 

Des Comines, himself so keen a spirit, was naturally 
gratified with the approbation of the most sagacious prince in 
Europe; and he could not so far disguise his internal satis¬ 
faction but that Louis was aware he had made some impres¬ 
sion on him. 

“I would,” continued he, “that I had such a servant, or 
rather that I were worthy to have such a one! I had not then 
been in this unfortunate situation; which, nevertheless, I 
should hardly regret, could I but discover any means of secur¬ 
ing the services of so experienced a statist.” ^ 

Des Comines said that all his faculties, such as they were, 
were at the service of his Most Christian Majesty, saving 
always his allegiance to his rightful lord, Duke Charles of 
Burgundy. 

“And am I one who would seduce you from that 
allegiance?” said Louis pathetically. “Alas! am I not now 
endangered by having reposed too much confidence in my 
vassal ? and can the cause of feudal good faith be more sacred 
with any than with me, whose safety depends on an appeal to 
it? No, Philip des Comines, continue to serve Charles of 
Burgundy; and you will best serve him by bringing round a 
fair accommodation with Louis of France. In doing thus 
you will serve us both, and one, at least, will be grateful. I 
am told your appointments in this court hardly match those of 
the Grand Falconer; and thus the services of the wisest coun¬ 
sellor in Europe are put on a level, or rather ranked below, 
those of a fellow who feeds and physics kites! France has 
wide lands; her King has much gold. Allow me, my friend, 
to rectify this scandalous inequality. The means are not 
distant. Permit me to use them.” 


^Statist. Statesman. 



Quentin Durward 


457 


The King produced a weighty bag of money; but Des 
Comines, more delicate in his sentiments than most courtiers 
of that time, declined the proffer, declaring him.self perfectly 
satisfied with the liberality of his native prince, and assuring 
Louis that his desire to serve him could not be increased by the 
acceptance of any such gratuity as he had proposed. 

“Singular man!” exclaimed the King; “let me embrace 
the only courtier of his time at once capable and incorruptible. 
Wisdom is to be desired more than fine gold; and believe me, 
I trust in thy kindness, Philip, at this pinch, more than I do 
in the purchased assistance of many who have received my 
gifts. I know you will not counsel your master to abuse such 
an opportunity as fortune, and, to speak plain, Des Comines, 
as my own folly, has afforded him.” 

“To abuse it., by no means,” answered the historian; “but 
most certainly to use it.” 

“How, and in what degree?” said Louis. “I am not ass 
enough to expect that I shall escape without some ransom, but 
let it be a reasonable one; reason I am ever willing to listen 
to, at Paris or at Plessis, equally as at Peronne.” 

“Ah, but if it like your Majesty,” replied Des Comines, 
“reason at Paris or Plessis was used to speak in so low and 
soft a tone of voice, that she could not always gain an audience 
of your Majesty; at Peronne she borrows the- speaking- 
trumpet of necessity, and her voice becomes lordly and 
imperative.” 

“You are figurative,” said Louis, unable to restrain an 
emotion of peevishness; “I am a dull, blunt man. Sir of 
Cbmines. I pray you leave your tropes, and come to plain 
ground. What does your duke expect of me?” 

“I am the bearer of no propositions, my lord,” said Des 
Comines; “the Duke will soon explain his own pleasure. But 
some things occur to me as proposals, for which your Majesty 
ought to hold yourself prepared; as, for example, the final 
cession of these towns here upon the Somme.” 

“I expected so much,” said Louis. 




458 Quentin Durward 

“That you should disown the Liegeois and William de la 
Marck.” 

“As willingly as I disclaim Hell and Satan,” said Louis. 

“Ample security will be required by hostages, or occupa¬ 
tion of fortresses, or otherwise, that France shall in future 
abstain from stirring up rebellion among the Flemings.” 

“It is something new,” answered the King, “that a vassal 
should demand pledges from his sovereign; but let that pass 
too.” 

“A suitable and independent appanage for your illustrious 
brother, the ally and friend of my master—Normandy or 
Champagne. The Duke loves your father’s house, my liege.” 

“So well,” answered Louis, “that, mart D 'leu! he’s about 
to make them all kings. Is your budget of hints yet emptied ?” 

“Not entirel}^” answered the counsellor: “it will certainly 
be required that your Majesty shall forbear molesting, as you 
have done of late, the Duke de Bi:etagne, and that you will no 
longer contest the right which he and other grand feudatories 
have to strike money, to term themselves dukes and princes by 
the grace of God-” 

“In a word,, to make so many kings of my vassals. Sir 
Philip, would you make a fratricide of me? You remember 
well rqy brother Charles: he was no sooner Duke of Guyenne 
than he died. And what will be left to the descendant and 
representative of Charlemagne, after giving away these rich 
provinces, save to be smeared with oil at Rheims,^ and to eat 
his dinner under a high canopy ?” ^ 

“We will diminish your Majesty’s concern on that score, 
by givipg you a companion in that solitary exaltation,” said 
Philip des Comines. “The Duke of Burgundy, though he 
claims not at present the title of an independent king, desires 
nevertheless to be freed in future from the abject marks of 
subjection required of him to the crown of France; it is his 
purpose to close his ducal coronet with an imperial arch, and 


many years the coronation of the kings of 
Eranee took place at Rheims; the anointing was a part of the ceremony. 





459 


} 

Quentin Durward 

surmount it with a globe, in emblem that his dominions are 
independent.” 

“And how dares the Duke of Burgundy, the sworn vassal 
of France,” exclaimed Louis, starting up and showing an 
unwonted degree of emotion—“how dares he propose such 
terms to his sovereign as, by every law of Europe, should infer 
a forfeiture of his. fief ?” 

“The doom of forfeiture it would in this case be difficult 
to enforce,” answered Des Comines, calmly. “Your Majesty 
is aware that the strict interpretation of the feudal law is 
becoming obsolete even in the Empire, and that superior and 
vassal endeavour to mend their situation in regard to each 
other as they have power and opportunity. Your Majesty s 
interferences with the Duke’s vassals in Flanders will prove 
an exculpation of my master’s conduct, supposing him to insist 
that, by enlarging his independence, France should in future 
be debarred from any pretext of doing so.” 

“Comines—Comines!” said Louis, arising again and pac¬ 
ing the room in a pensive manner, ‘ this is a dreadful lesson on 
the text.Vie victis!^ You cannot mean that the Duke will 
insist on all these hard conditions?” 

“At least I would have your Majesty be in a condition to 
discuss them all.” 

“Yet moderation, Des Comines—moderation in success 

Is_no one knows better than you—necessary to its ultimate 

advantage.” 

“So please your Majesty, the merit of moderation is, I 
have observed, most apt to be extolled by the losing party. 
The winner holds in more esteem the prudence which calls on 
him not to leave an opportunity unimproved. 

“Well, we will consider,” replied the King; “but at least 
thou hast reached the extremity of your duke’s unreasonable 
exaction? There can remain nothing—or if there does, for so 
thy brow intimates—what is it—what indeed can it be, unless 

iFffi victis. Woe to the vanquished. 


460 


Quentin Durward 

it he my crown, which these previous demands, if granted, will 
deprive of all its lustre?” 

“Aly lord,” said Des Comines, “what remains to be men¬ 
tioned is a thing partly—indeed, in a. great measure—within 
the Duke’s own power, though he means to invite your 
Majesty’s accession to it, for in truth it touches you nearly.” 

‘"Pasques-dieu!” exclaimed the King impatiently, “what is 
it ? Speak out. Sir Philip; am I to send him my daughter for 
a concubine, or v/hat other dishonour is he to put on me?” 

“No dishonour, my liege; but j^our Majesty’s cousin, the 
illustrious Duke of Orleans-” 

“Ha!” exclaimed the King; but Des Comines proceeded 
without heeding the interruption. 

“—Having conferred his affections on the young Countess 
Isabelle of Croye, the Duke expects your Majesty will, on 
your part, as he on his, yield ypur assent to the marriage, and 
unite with him in endowing the right noble couple with such 
an appanage as, joined to the countess’s estates, may form a fit 
establishment for a child of France.” 

“Never—never!” said the King, bursting out into that 
emotion which he had of late suppressed with much difficulty, 
and striding about in a disordered haste, which formed the 
strongest contrast to the self-command which he usually 
exhibited—“never—never! Let them bring scissors and shear 
my hair like that of the parish fool, whom I have so richly 
resembled—let them bid the monastery or the grave yawn for 
me—let them bring red-hot basins to sear my eyes—axe or 
aconite—:whatever they will; but Orleans shall not break his 
plighted faith to my daughter, or marry another while she 
lives!” 

“Your Majesty,” said Des Comines, “ere you set your 
mind so keenly against what is proposed, will consider your 
own want of power to prevent it. Every wise man, when he 
sees a rock giving way, withdraws from the bootless attempt 
of preventing tbe fall.” 

“But a brave man,” said Louis, “will at least find his 





.461 


Quentin Durward 

grave beneath it. Des Comines, consider the great loss the 
utter destruction, such a marriage will bring upon my king¬ 
dom. Recollect, I have but one feeble boy, and this Orleans 
is the next heir; consider that the church hath consented to his 
union with Joan, which unites so happily the interests of both 
branches of my family—think on all this, and think too that 
this union has been the favourite scheme of my whole life— 
that I have schemed for it, fought for it, watched for it, 
prayed for it—and sinned for it. Philip des Comines, I will 
not forego it! Think, man—think! pity me in this extremity; 
thy quick brain can speedily find some substitute for this 
sacrifice—some ram to be offered up instead of that project 
which is dear to me as the Patriarch’s only son was to him. 
Philip, pity me! You, at least, should know that to men of 
judgment and foresight the destruction of the scheme on 
which they have long dwelt, and for which they have long 
toiled, is more inexpressibly bitter than the transient grief of 
ordinary men, whose pursuits are but the gratification of some 
temporary passion—you,, who know how to sympathise with 
the deeper, the more genuine distress of baffled prudence and 
disappointed sagacity, will you not feel for me? 

“My lord and king!” replied Des Comines, “I do sym^- 
pathise with your distress, in so far as duty to my master 

“Do not mention him!” said Louis, acting, or at least 
appearing to act, under an irresistible and headlong impulse, 
which withdrew the usual guard which he maintained over his 
language. “Charles of Burgundy is unworthy of your attach¬ 
ment. He who can insult and strike his counsellors—he who 
can distinguish the wisest and most faithful among them by 
the opprobrious name of Booted Head ! 

The wisdom of Philip des Comines did not prevent his 
having a high sense of personal consequence; and he was so 
much struck with the words which the King uttered, as it 
were, in the career of a passion which overleaped ceremony, 
that he could only reply by repetition of the words “Booted 
Head! It is impossible that my master the Duke could have 




Quentin Durward 

so termed the servant who has been at his side since he could 
mount a palfrey, and that too before a foreign monarch—it is 
impossible!” 

Louis instantly saw the impression he had made, and 
avoiding alike a tone of condolence, which might have seemed 
insulting, and one of sympathy, which might have savoured of 
affectation, he said, with simplicity, and at the same time with 
dignity, “My misfortunes make me forget my courtesy, else I 
had not spoken to you of what it must be unpleasant for you 
to hear. But you have in reply taxed me with having uttered 
impossibilities, this touches my honour; yet I must submit to 
the charge, if I tell you not the circumstances which the 
Duke, laughing until his eyes ran over, assigned for the origin 
of that opprobrious name, which I will not offend your ears 
by repeating. Thus, then it chanced. You, Sir Philip des 
Comines, were at a hunting-match with the Duke of Bur¬ 
gundy, your master; and when he alighted after the chase, he 
required your services in drawing off his boots. Reading in 
your looks, perhaps, some natural resentment of this disparag¬ 
ing treatment, he ordered you to sit down in turn, and ren¬ 
dered you the same office he had just received from you. But, 
offended at your understanding him literally, he no sooner 
plucked one of your boots off than he brutally beat it ab6ut 
your head till the blood flowed, exclaiming against the inso¬ 
lence of a subject who had the presumption to accept of such 
a service at the hand of his sovereign; and hence he, or his 
privileged fool Le Glorieux, is in the current habit of dis¬ 
tinguishing you by the absurd and ridiculous name of Tete- 
botte, which makes one of the Duke’s most ordinary subjects 
of pleasantry.” ^ 

While Louis thus spoke, he had the double pleasure of 
galling to the quick the person whom he addressed—an exer¬ 
cise which it was in his nature to enjoy, even where he had 
not, as in the present case, the apology that he did so in pure 


^ Pleasantry . See Note i\.—Anecdote of the Boots . 




463 


Quentin Durward 

retaliation—and that of observing, that he had at length been 
able to find a point in Des Comines’s character which might 
lead him gradually from the interests of Burgundy to those of 
! France. But although the deep resentment which the offended 
courtier entertained against his master induced him at a 
future period to exchange the service of Charles for that of 
Louis, yet, at the.present moment, he was contented to throw 
out only some general hints of his friendly inclination towards 
France, which he well knew the King would understand how 
I to interpret. And indeed it would be unjust to stigmatise the 
I memory of the excellent historian with the desertion of his 
master on this occasion, although he was certainly now 
possessed with sentiments much more favourable to Louis 
I than when he entered the apartment. 

I He constrained himself to laugh at the anecdote which 
' Louis had detailed, and then added,, “I did not think so 
trifling a frolic would have dwelt on the mind of the Duke so 
long as to make it worth telling again. Some such passage 
there was of drawing off boots and the like, as your Majesty 
knows that the Duke is fond of rude play; but it has been 
much exaggerated in his recollection. Let it pass on.” 

I “Ay, let it pass on,” said the King; “it is indeed shame it 
i should have detained us a minute. And now. Sir Philip, I 
hope you are French so far as to afford me your best counsel 
in these difficult affairs. You have, I am well aware, the clue 
to the labyrinth, if you would but impart it.” 

“Your Majesty may command my best advice and service,” 
replied Des Comines, “under reservation always of my duty to 
my own master.” 

This was nearly what the courtier had before stated; but 
he now repeated it in a tone so different, that whereas Louis 
understood from the former declaration that the reserved duty 
to Burgundy was the prime thing to be considered, so he now 
saw clearly that the emphasis was reversed, and that more 
weight was now given by the speaker to his promise of counsel 
thiin to a restriction which seemed interposed for the sake of 



464 


Quentin Durward 

form and consistency. The King resumed his own seat, and 
compelled Des Comines to sit by him, listening at the same 
time to that statesman, as if the words of an oracle sounded 
in his ears. Des Comines spoke in that low and impressive 
tone which implies at once great sincerity and some caution, 
and at the same time so slowly as if he was desirous that the 
King should weigh and consider each individual word as hav¬ 
ing its own peculiar and determined meaning. “The things,” 
he said, “which I have suggested for your Majesty’s considera¬ 
tion, harsh as they sound in your ear, are but substitutes for 
still more violent proposals brought forward in the Duke’s 
councils by such as are more hostile to your Majesty. And I 
need scarcely remind your Majesty that the more direct and 
more violent suggestions find readiest acceptance with our 
master, who loves brief and dangerous measures better than 
those that are safe, but at the same time circuitous.” 

“I remember,” said the King, “I have seen him swim a 
river at the risk of drowning, though there was a bridge to be 
found for riding two hundred yards round.” 

“True, sire; and he that weighs not his life against the 
gratification of a moment of impetuous passion will, on the 
same impulse, prefer the gratification of his will to the increase 
of his substantial power.” 

“Most true,” replied the King; “a fool will ever grasp 
rather at the appearance than the reality of authority. All 
this I know to be true of Charles of Burgundy. But my dear 
friend Des Comines, what do you infer from these premises?” 

“Simply this, my lord,” answered the Burgundian, “that 
as your Majesty has seen a skilful angler control a large and 
heavy fish, and finally draw him to land by a single hair, 
which fish had broke through a tackle tenfold stronger had the 
fisher presumed to strain the line on him, instead of giving him 
head enough for all his wild flourishes, even so your Majesty, 
by gratifying the Duke in these particulars on which he has 
pirched his ideas of honour and the gratification of his revenge, 
may evade many of the other unpalatable propositions at which 




465 


Quentin Durward 

I have hinted, and which—including, I must state openly to 
jour Majesty, some of those through which France would be 
most especially weakened—will slide out of his remembrance 
and attention, and, being referred to subsequent conferences 
and future discussion, may be altogether eluded.” 

“I understand you, my good Sir Philip; but to the matter,” 
said the King. “To which of those happy propositions is j'our 
duke so much wedded that contradiction will make him unrea¬ 
sonable and untractable ?” 

“To any or to all of them, if it please your Majesty, on 
^which you may happen to contradict him. This is precisely 
what your Majesty must avoid; and to take up my former 
parable, you must needs remain on the watch, ready to give 
the Duke line enough whenever he shoots away under the 
impulse of his rage. His fury, already considerably abated, 
will waste itself if he be unopposed, and you will presently find 
him become more friendly and more tractable.” 

“Still,” said the King, musing, “there must be some par¬ 
ticular demands which lie deeper at my cousin’s heart than the 
other proposals. Were I but aware of these. Sir Philip-” 

“Your Majesty may make the lightest of his demands the 
most Important, simply by opposing it,” said Des Comines; 
“nevertheless, my lord, thus far I can say, that pvery shadow 
of treaty will be broken off, if your Majesty renounce not 
William de la Marqk and the Liegeols.” 

“I have already said that I will disown them,” said the 
King, “and well they deserve it at my hand; the villains have 
commenced their uproar at a moment that might have cost me 
my life.” 

“He that fires a train of powder,” replied the historian, 
“must expect a speedy explosion of the mine. But more than 
mere disavowal of their cause will be expected of your Majesty 
by Duke Charles; for know, that he will demand your 
IMajesty’s assistance to put the insurrection down, and your 
royal presence to witness the punishment which he destines for 
the rebels.” 



Quentin Durvvard 

“That may scarce consist with our honour, Des Comines,” • 
said the King. i 

“To refuse it will scarcely consist with your Majesty’s ; 
safety,” replied Des Comines. “Charles is determined to 
show the people of Flanders that no hope, nay, no promise, of i 
assistance from France will save them in their mutinies from ^ 
the wrath and vengeance of Burgundy.” 

“But, Sir Philip, I will speak plainly,” answered the King, jj 
“Could we but procrastinate the matter, might not these j 
rogues of Liege make their own part good against Duke i 
Charles? The knaves are numerous and steady, can they not. * 
hold out their town against him?” 

“With the help of the thousand archers of France wFom 
your Majesty promised them, they might have done some- ‘ 
thing; but-” 

“Whom I promised them!” said the King. “Alas! good t 
S ir Philip! you much wrong me in saying soi” 

—But without whom,” continued Des Comines, not ^ 
heeding the interruption, “as your Majesty will not now ; 
likely find it convenient to supply them, what chance will the i 
burghers have of making good their town, in whose walls the ’ 
large breaches made by Charles after the battle of St. Tron ^ 
are still unrepaired; so that the lances of Hainault, Brabant, \ 
and Burgundy may advance to the attack twenty men in 
front?” 

“The improvident idiots!” said the King. “If they have . 
thus neglected their own safety, they deserve not my pro- •< 
tection. Pass on ; I will make no quarrel for their sake.” 

“The next point, I fear, will sit closer to your Majesty’s 
heart,” said Des Comines. 

“Ah!” replied the King, “you mean that infernal mar¬ 
riage ! I will not consent to the breach of the contract betwixt 
my daughter Joan and my cousin of Orleans; it would be | 
wresting the sceptre of France from me and my posterity, for i 
that feeble boy the Dauphin is a blighted blossom, which will ■ 
wither vyithout fruit. This match between Joan and Orleans : 






467 


Quentin Durward 

j has been my thought by day, my dream by night. I tell thee, 

I Sir Philip, I cannot give it up! Besides, it is inhuman to 
: require me, with my own hand, to destroy at once my own 
l| scheme of policy and the happiness of a pair brought up for 
! each other.” 

j “Are they then so much attached?” said Des Comines. 

I “One of them at least is,” said the King, “and the one for 
I whom I am bound to be most anxious. But you smile. Sir 
Philip, you are no believer in the force of love.” 

“Nay,” said Des Comines, “if it please you, sire, I am so 
little an infidel in that particular that I was about to ask 
whether it would reconcile you in any degree to your acquiesc¬ 
ing in the proposed marriage betwixt the Duke of Orleans and 
I Isabelle de Croye, were I to satisfy you that the countess’s 
j inclinations are so much fixed on another that it is likely it 
. will never be a match?” 

King Louis sighed. “Alas!” he said, “my good and dear 
friend, from what sepulchre have you drawn such dead man’s 
comfort? Her inclination, indeed! Why, to speak truth, 
supposing that Orleans detested my daughter Joan, yet, but 
I for this ill-ravelled web of mischance, he must needs have 
married her; so you may conjecture how little chance there is 
of this damsel being able to refuse him under a similar com¬ 
pulsion, and he a child of France besides. Ah, no, Philip! 
little fear of her standing obstinate against the suit of such a 
lover. Varium et mutabile} Philip.” 

“Your Majesty may, in the present instance, undervalue 
the obstinate courage of this young lady. She comes of a race 
determinately wilful; and I have picked out of Crevecoeur 
that she has formed a romantic attachment to a young squire, 
who, to say truth,, rendered her many services on the road.” 

“Ha!” said the King, “an archer of my Guards, by name 
Quentin Durw^ard?” 

“The same, as I think,” said Des Comines; “he was made 

arium et mutabile. Varium et mutabile semper femina. Woman is ever 
fickle and capricious.—Virgil’s Aeneid, IV., 569. 





468 Quentin Durward 

prisoner along with the countess, travelling almost alone 
together.” 

“Now, Our Lord and Our Lady, and Monseigneur St. 
iVlartin, and Monseigneur St. Julian be praised every one of 
them!” said the King, “and all laud and honour to the learned 
Galeotti, who read in the stars that this j^outh’s destiny was 
connected with mine! If the maiden be so attached to him as 
to make her refractory to the will of Burgundy, this Quentin 
hath indeed been rarely useful to me.” 

“I believe, my lord,” answered the Burgundian, “according 
to Crevecoeur’s report, that there is some chance of her being 
sufficiently obstinate; besides, doubtless, the noble Duke him¬ 
self, notwithstanding what your Majesty was pleased to hint 
in way of supposition, will not willingly renounce his fair 
cousin, to whom he has been long engaged.” 

“Umph!” answ^ered the King. “But you have never seen 
my daughter Joan. A howlet, man!—an absolute owl, whom 
I am ashamed of! But let him be only a wise man, and marry 
her, I will give him leave to be mad par amours for the fairest 
lady in France. And now, Philip, have you given me the full 
map of your master’s mind ?” 

“I have possessed you, sire, of those particulars on which 
he is at present most disposed to insist. But your Majesty 
wtU knows that the Duke’s disposition is like a sweeping tor- 
rent, which only passes smoothly forward when its waves 
encounter no opposition; and what may be presented to chafe 
him into fury, it is impossible even to guess. Were more dis¬ 
tinct evidence of your Majesty’s practices—pardon the phrase, 
where there is so little time for selection—with the Liegeois 
and William de la Marck to occur unexpectedly, the issue 
might be terrible. There are strange news from that country: 
they say La Marck hath married Hameline the elder Countess 
of Croye.” 

“That old fool was so mad on marriage that she would 
ha^'e accepted the hand of Satan,” said the King; “but that 



Quentin Durward 469 

La Marck, beast as he is, should have married her rather more 
surprises me.” 

“There is a report also,” continued Des Comines, “that an 
envoy, or herald., on La March’s part, is approaching Peronne; 
this is likely to drive the Duke frantic with rage. I trust that 
he has no letters, or the like, to show on your Majesty’s part?” 

“Letters to a Wild Boar!” answered the King. “No—no. 
Sir Philip, I was no such fool as to cast pearls before swine. 
What little intercourse I had with the brute animal was by 
message, in which I always employed such low-bred slaves 
and vagabonds that their evidence would not be received in a 
trial for robbing a hen-roost.” 

“I can then only further recommend,” said Des Comines, 
taking his leave, “that your Majesty should remain on your 
guard, be guided by events, and, above all,, avoid using any 
language or argument with the Duke which may better 
become your dignity than your present condition.” 

“If my dignity,” said the King, “grow troublesome to me, 
which it seldom doth while there are deeper interests to think 
of, I have a special remedy for that swelling of the heart. It 
is but looking into a certain ruinous closet, Sir Philip, and 
thinking of the death of Charles the Simple; and it cures me 
as effectually as the cold bath would cool a fever. And now, 
my friend and monitor, must thou be gone? Well, Sir Philip, 
the time must come when thou wilt tire reading lessons of 
state policy to the Bull of Burgundy, who is incapable of 
comprehending your most simple argument. If Louis of 
Valois then lives, thou hast a friend in the court of France. 
I tell thee, my Philip, it would be a blessing to my kingdom 
should I ever acquire thee, who, with a profound view of 
subjects of state, hast also a conscience capable of feeling and 
discerning between right and wrong. So help me. Our Lord 
and Lady, and Monseigneur St. Martin, Oliver and Balue 
have hearts as hardened as the nether millstone; and my life 
is embittered by remorse and penances for the crimes they 
make me commit. Thou, Sir Philip, possessed of the wisdom 


470 


Quentin Durward 

of present and past times, canst teach how to become great 
without ceasing to be virtuous.” 

“A hard task, and which few have attained,” said the 
historian, “but which is yet within the reach of princes who 
will strive for it. Meantime, sire, be prepared, for the Duke 
will presently confer with you.” 

Louis looked long after Philip when he left the apartment, 
and at length burst into a bitter laugh. “He spoke of fishing— 
I have sent him home, a trout properly tickled! And he 
thinks himself virtuous because he took no bribe, but con¬ 
tented himself with flattery and promises, and the pleasure of 
avenging an affront to his vanity! Why, he is but so much 
the poorer for the refusal of the money, not a jot the more 
honest. He must be mine, though, for he hath the shrewdest 
head among them. Well, now for nobler game! I am to 
face this leviathan Charles, wh.o will presently swim hither¬ 
ward, cleaving the deep before him. I must, like the trem¬ 
bling sailor, throw a tub^ overboard to amuse him. But I 
may one day find the chance—of driving a harpoon into his 
entrails!” 

^Throw a tub, etc. Scott evidently recalls a passage in Jonathan’s Swift’s Tale 
of a Tub; in the preface of his satire, Swift declared that “seamen have a custom 
when they meet a whale, to fling him out an empty tub by way of amusement, to 
divert him from laying violent hands upon the ship.” See also Note 32 .—Philip 
des Comines. ' 




CHAPTER XXXL 


THE INTERVIEW 

Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. Gentle maiden, 

Keep you your promise plight; leave age its subtleties, 

And grey-hair’d policy its maze of falsehood; 

But be you candid as the morning sky. 

Ere the high sun sucks vapours up to stain it. 

The Trial. 

On the perilous and important morning which preceded 
the meeting of the two princes in the Castle of Peronne, 
Oliver le Dain did his master the service of an active and 
skilful agent, making interest for Louis in every quarter, both 
with presents and promises; so that, when the Duke’s anger 
should blaze forth, all around should be interested to smother, 
and not to increase the conflagration. He glided, like night, 
from tent to tent, from house to house, making himself friends, 
but not, in the Apostle’s sense, with the Mammon of unright¬ 
eousness.^ As was said of another active political agent, “His 
finger was in every man’s palm, his mouth was in every man’s 
earand for various reasons, some of which we have for¬ 
merly hinted at, he secured the favour of many Burgundian 
nobles, who either had something to hope or fear from France, 
or who thought that, were the power of Louis too much 
reduced, their own duke would be likely to pursue the road to 
despotic authority, to which his heart naturally inclined him, 
with a daring and unopposed pace. 

Where Oliver suspected his own presence or arguments 
might be less acceptable, he employed that of other servants 

^Mammon of unrighteousness .—Luke XVI., 9. 


471 


472 


Quentin Durward 


of the King; and it was in this manner that he obtained, by 
the favour of the Count de Crevecceur, an interview betwixt 
Lord Crawford, accompanied by Le Balafre, and Quentin 
Durward, who, since he had arrived at Peronne, had been 
detained in a sort of honourable confinement. Private affairs 
were assigned as the cause of requesting this meeting; but it 
is probable that Crevecceur, who was afraid that his master 
might be stirred up in passion to do something dishonourably 
violent towards Louis, was not sorry to afford an opportunity 
to Crawford to give some hints to the young archer which 
might prove useful to his master. 

The meeting between the countrymen was cordial, and 
even affecting. 

“Thou art a singular youth,” said Crawford, stroking the 
head of young Durward as a grandsire might do that of his 
descendant. “Certes, you have had as meikle good fortune as 
if you had been born with a lucky hood on your head.” ^ 

“All comes of his gaining an archer’s place at such early 
years,” said Le Balafre; “I never was so much talked of, fair 
nephew, because I was five-and-twenty years old before I was 
hors de page.’* ^ 

“And an ill-looking mountainous monster of a page thou 
wert, Ludovic,” said the old commander, “with a beard like a 
baker’s shool,^ and a back like old Wallace Wight.”"* 

“I fear,” said Quentin, with downcast eyes, “I shall enjoy 
that title of distinction but a short time, since it is my purpose 
to resign the service of the Archer Guard.” 

Le Balafre was struck almost mute with astonishment, 
and Crawford’s ancient features gleamed with displeasure. 
The former at length mustered words enough to say, “Re¬ 
sign!—leave your place in the Scottish Archers! such a thing 


"^Wilh a lucky hood. The caul, or membrane, which sometimes envelops the 
head and face of a child at birth; it was deemed a sign of luck. 

^Hors de page. Through with the period of page-ship. 

^Shool. Shovel; used in thrusting loaves into a huge oven, and in drawing 
them forth. 


HVallace Wight. Wallace the Strong; a favorite 
popular hero, Sir William Wallace (1274-1305). 


designation of Scotland’s 





473 


Quentin Durward 

was never dreamt of. I would not give up my situation, to be 
made Constable of France.” 

“Hush! Ludovic,” said Crawford, “this youngster knows 
better how to shape his course with the wind than we of the 
old world do. His journey hath given him some pretty tales 
to tell about King Louis; and he is turning Burgundian, that 
he may make his own little profit by telling them to Duke 
Charles.” 

“If I thought so,” said Le Balafre, “I would cut his throat 
with my own hand, were he fifty times my sister’s son!” 

“But 5'ou would first inquire whether I deserved to be so 
treated, fair kinsman?” answered Quentin. “And you, my 
lord, know that I am no tale-bearer; nor shall either question 
or torture draw out of me a word to King Louis’s prejudice 
which may have come to my knowledge while I was in his 
service. So far my oath of duty keeps me silent. But I will 
not remain in that service,, in which, besides the perils of fair 
battle with mine enemies, I am to be exposed to the dangers 
of ambuscade on the part of my friends.” 

“Nay, if he objects to lying in ambuscade,” said the slow- 
witted Le Balafre, looking sorrowfully at the Lord Crawford, 
“I am afraid, my lord, that all is over with him! I myself 
have had thirty bushments break upon me, and truly I 
think I have laid in ambuscade twice as often myself, it being 
a favourite practice in our King’s mode of making war. 

“It is so., indeed, Ludovic,” answered Lord Crawford; 
“nevertheless, hold your peace, for I believe I understand this 
gear better than you do.” 

“I wish to Our Lady you may, my lord,” answered Ludo¬ 
vic ; “but it wounds me to the very midriff to think my sister’s 
son should fear-an ambushment.” 

“Young man,” said Crawford, “I partly guess your mean¬ 
ing. You have met foul play on the road where you travelled 
by the King’s command, and you think you have reason to 
charge him with being the author of it? 

“I have been threatened with foul plaV in the execution of 




474 


Quentin Durward 

the King’s commission,” answered Quentin; “but I have had 
the good fortune to elude it; whether his Majesty be innocent 
or guilty in the matter, I leave to God and his own conscience. 
He fed me when I was a-hungered, received me when I was a 
wandering stranger; I will never load him in his adversity 
with accusations which may indeed be unjust, since I heard 
them only from the vilest mouths.” 

“My dear boy—my own lad!” said Crawford, taking him 
in his arms, “ye think like a Scot, every joint of you! Like 
one that will forget a cause of quarrel with a friend whose 
back is already at the wall, and remember nothing of him but 
his kindness.” 

“Since my Lord Crawford has embraced my nephew,” 
said Ludovic Lesly, “I will embrace him also, though I would 
have you to know, that to understand the service of an ambush- 
ment is as necessary to a soldier as it is to a priest to be able 
to read his breviary.” 

“Be hushed, Ludovic,” said Crawford; “ye are an ass, my 
friend, and ken not the blessing Heaven has sent you in this 
braw callant.^ And now tell me, Quentin, my man, hath the 
King any advice of this brave, Christian, and manly resolution 
of yours? for, poor man, he had need, in his strait, to ken 
what he has to reckon upon. Had he but brought the whole 
brigade of Guards with him—but God’s will be done I Kens 
he of your purpose, think you ?” 

“I really can hardly tell,” answered Quentin; “but I 
assured his learned astrologer, Martins Galeottl, of my resolu¬ 
tion to be silent on all that could injure the King with the 
Duke of Burgund)^ The particulars which I suspect I will 
not—under your favour—communicate even to your lordship ; 
and to the philosopher I was, of course, far less willing to 
unfold myself.” 

“Ha!—ay!” answered Lord Crawford.' “Oliver did 
Indeed tell me that Galeotti prophesied most stoutly concern- 

^Braw callanl. Brave (i. e. fine) youth. 





475 


Quentin Durward 

ing the line of conduct you were to hold; and I am truly glad 
to find he did so on better authority than the stars.” 

“He prophesy!” said Le Balafre, laughing. “The stars 
never told him that honest Ludovic Lesly used to help yonder 
wench of his to spend the fair ducats he flings into her lap.” 

“Hush! Ludovic,” said his captain—“hush, thou beast, 
man! If thou dost not respect my grey hairs, because I have 
been e’en too much of a rouiier myself, respect the boy’s 
youth and innocence, and let us have no more of such unbe¬ 
coming daffing.” ^ 

“Your honour may say your pleasure,” answered Ludovic 
Lesly; “but by my faith, second-sighted Saunders Souplejaw, 
the towm-souter “ of Glen Houlakin, was worth Gallotti, or 
Gallipotty, or whatever ye call him, twice told, for a prophet. 
He foretold that all my sister’s children would die some day; 
and he foretold it in the very hour that the youngest was born, 
and that is this lad Quentin, who, no doubt, will one day 
die, to make up the prophecy—the more’s the pity; the whole 
curney^ of them is gone but himself. And Saunders foretold 
to mt’self one day, that I should be made by marriage, which 
doubtless will also happen in due time, though it hath not yet 
come to pass, though how or when, I can hardly guess, as I 
care not myself for the wedded state, and Quentin is but a 
lad. Also Saunders predicted-” 

“Nay,” said Lord Crawford, “unless the prediction be 
singularly to the purpose, I must cut you short, my good 
Ludovic; for both you and I must now leave your nephew, 
with prayers to Our Lady to strengthen him in the good mind 
he is in; for this is a case in which a light word might do 
more mischief than all the Parliament of Paris could mend. 
My blessing with you, my lad; and be in no hurry to think of 
•leaving our body, for there will be good blows going presently 
in the e3'e of day, and no ambuscade.” 

^Daffing. Loose talk. 

^Souter. Cobbler. 

^Curney. Small number. 



476 Quentin Durward 

“And m)^ blessing too, nephew,” said Ludovic Lesly; “for, . 
since you have satisfied our most noble captain, I also am 
satisfied, as in duty bound.” 

“Stay, my lord,” said Quentin, and led Lord Crawford a 
little apart from his uncle. “I must not forget to mention 
that there is a person besides in the world, who, having 
learned from m.e these circumstances which it is essential to 
King Louis’s safety should at present remain concealed, may 
not think that the same obligation of secrecy which attaches to 
me as the King’s soldier, and as having been relieved by his 
bounty, is at all binding on her.” 

“On her!” replied Crawford; “nay, if there be a woman 
in the secret, the Lord ha’ mercj^, for we are all on the rocks 
again!” 

“Do not suppose so, my lord,” replied Durward, “but use 
your interest with the Count of Crevecoeur to permit me an 
interview with the Countess Isabelle of Croye, who is the 
party possessed of my secret, and I doubt not that I can per¬ 
suade her to be as silent as I shall unquestionably myself 
remain concerning whatever may incense the Duke against 
King Louis.” 

The old soldier mused for a long time, looked up to the 
ceiling, then down again upon the floor, then shook his head, 
and at length said, “There is something in all this which, by 
my honour, I do not understand. The Countess Isabelle of 
Croye! an interview with a lady of her birth, blood, and 
possessions, and thou, a raw Scottish lad, so certain of carrying 
thy point with her! Thou art either strangely confident, my 
young friend, or else you have used your time well upon the 
journey. But, by the cross of St. Andrew! I will move 
Crevecoeur in thy behalf; and, as he truly fears that Duke 
Charles may be provoked against the King to the extremity of 
falling foul, I think it likely he may grant thy request, though, 
by my honour, it is a comical one.” 

So saying, and shrugging up his shoulders, the old lord 
left the apartment, followed by Ludovic Lesly, who, forming 




Quentin Durward 477 

his looks on those of his principal, endeavoured, though know¬ 
ing nothing of the cause of his wonder, to look as mysterious 
and important as Crawford himself. 

In a few minutes Crawford returned, but without his 
attendant Le Balafre. The old man seemed in singular 
humour, laughing and chuckling to himself in a manner which 
strangely distorted his stern and rigid features, and at the 
same time shaking his head, as at something which he could 
not help condemning, while he found it irresistibly ludicrous. 
“My certes,^ countryman,” said he, “but you are not blate:^ 
you will never lose fair lady for faint heart! Crevecoeur 
swallowed your proposal as he would have done a cpp of 
vinegar, and swore to me roundly, by all the saints in Bur¬ 
gundy, that were less than the honour of princes and the peace 
of kingdoms at stake, you should never see even so much as 
the print of the Countess Isabelle’s foot on the clay. Were it 
not that he had a dame, and a fair one, I would have thought 
that he meant to break a lance for the prize himself. Perhaps 
he thinks of his nephew, the County Stephen. A countess! 
would no less serve you to be minting^ at? But come along; 
your interview with her must be brief. But I fancy you know 
how to make the most of little time—ho! ho! ho! By my faith, 
I can hardly chide thee for the presumption, I have such a 
good will to laugh at it!” 

With a brow like scarlet, at once offended and discon¬ 
certed by the blunt inferences of the old soldier, and vexed 
at beholding in what an absurd light his passion was viewed 
by every person' of experience, Durward followed Lord Craw¬ 
ford in silence to the Ursuline convent in which the countess 
was lodged, and in the parlour of which he found the Count 
de Crevecoeur. 

“So, young gallant,” said the litter, sternly, “you must see 
the fair companion of your romantic expedition once more, it 
seems ?” 

^My certes. My faith! 

^Blate. Bashful. 

^Minting. Aiming. 




478 


Quentin Durward 


“Yes, my lord count,” answered Quentin, firmly; “and 
what is more, I must see her alone.” 

That shall never be,” said the Count de CreveccEur. 

Lord Crawford, I make )eu judge. This young lady, the 
daughter of my old friend and companion in arms, the richest : | 
heiress in Burgundy, has confessed a sort of a—what was I 
going to say?—in short, she is a fool, and your man-at-arms , 
here a presumptuous coxcomb. In a word, they shall not meet 
alone.” 

Then will I not speak a single word to the countess in , ^ 
your presence,” said Quentin, much delighted.' “You have | 
told me much that I did not dare, presumptuous as I may be, 
even to hope.” 

“Ay, truly said, my friend,” said Crawford. “You have 
been imprudent in your communications; and, since you refer r. 
to me, and there is a good stout grating^ across the parlour, I 'i 
would advise you to trust to it, and let them do the worst with i 
their tongues. What, man! the life of a king, and many 
thousands besides, is not to be weighed with the chance of two [j 
young things whillywhawing in ilk others ears for a minute.” 

So saying, he dragged off Crevecoeur, who followed very 
reluctantly, and cast many angry glances at the young archer 
as he left the room. - 

In a moment after the Countess Isabelle entered on the \ 
other side of the grate, and no sooner saw Quentin alone in i 
the parlour than she stopped short, and cast her eyes on the ‘'i 
ground for the space of half a minute. “Yet why should I I 
be ungrateful, she said, “because others are unjustly sus- ' 
picious? My friend—my preserver, I may almost say, so ' 
much have I been beset by treachery—my only faithful and i 
constant friend 1” 1 

As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him through \ 
the pate, nay, suffered him to retain it until he had covered 
it with kisses,, not unmingled with tears. She only said, “Dur- '! 


Through this grating those whose vows of retire- 
fViends ^ general association with the world, may see and converse with their 






Quentin Durward 479 

■ward, were we ever to meet again, I would not permit this 
1 folly.” 

I If it be considered that Quentin had guarded her through 
^ so many perils, that he had been, in truth, her only faithful 
and zealous protector, perhaps my fair readers, even if 
countesses and heiresses should be of the number, will pardon 
the derogation. 

But the countess extricated her hand at length, and step¬ 
ping a pace back from the grate, asked Durward, in a very 
ivembarrassed tone, what boon he had to ask of her? “For that 
Iryou have a request to make I have learned from the old 
Scottish lord, who came here but now with my cousin of 

[ Crevecoeur. Let it be but reasonable,” she said, “but such as 
poor Isabelle can grant with duty and honour uninfringed, 
and you cannot tax my slender powers too highly. But O! do 
not speak hastily; do not say,” she added, looking around with 
timidity, “aught that might, if overheard, do prejudice to us 
both!” 

“Fear not, noble lady,” said Quentin, sorrowfully; “it is 
not here that I can forget the distance which fate has placed 
between us, or expose you to the censure of your proud kin¬ 
dred as the object of the most devoted love to one, poorer, and 
less powerful, not perhaps less noble, than themselves. Let 
that pass like a dream of the night to all but one bosom, 
where, dream as it is, it will fill up the room of all existing 
realities.” 

“Hush—hush!” said Isabelle; “for your own sake, for 
mine, be silent on such a theme. Tell me rather what it is 
you have to ask of me.” 

“Forgiveness to one,” replied Quentin, “who, for his own 
selfish views,, hath conducted himself as your enemy.” 

“I trust I forgive all my enemies,” answered Isabelle; “but 
oh, Durward! through y^at scenes have your courage and 
presence of mind protected me! Yonder bloody hall! the 
good bishop! I knew not till yesterday half the horrors I had 
unconsciously witnessed.” 



Quentin Durward 

“Do not think of them,” said Quentin, who saw the tran¬ 
sient colour which had come to her cheek during their con-i 
ference fast fading into the most deadly paleness. “Do noti 
look back, but look steadily forward, as they needs must whoj 
walk in a perilous road. Hearken to me. King Louis 
deserves nothing better at your hand, of all others, than to be, 
proclaimed the wily and insidious politician which he really is. 
But to tax him as the encourager of your flight, still more asi 
the author of a plan to throw you into the hands of De la i 
Marck, will at this moment produce perhaps the King’s death 
or dethronement; and, at all events, the most bloody war, 
between France and Burgundy which the t>\^o countries have ' 
ever been engaged in.” 

“These evils shall not arrive for my sake, if they can be pre- ' 
vented,”said the Countess Isabelle; “and indeed your slightest ^ 
request were enough to make me forego my revenge, were ' 
that at any time a passion which I deeply cherished. Is it 
possible I would rather remember King Louis’s injuries than 
your invaluable services ? Yet how is this to be ? When I am 
called before my sovereign, the Duke of Burgundy, I must : 
either stand silent or speak the truth. The former would be 
contumacy; and to a false tale you will not desire me to train 
my tongue.” 

Surely not, said Durward; “but let your evidence con- ! 
cerning Louis be confined to what you yourself positively 
know to be truth; and when you mention what others have 
reported, no matter how credibly, let it be as reports only, and 
beware of pledging your own personal evidence to that which, 
though you may fully believe, you cannot personally know, to 
be true. The assembled council of Burgundy cannot refuse 
to a monarch the justice which in my country is rendered to 
the meanest person under accusation. They must esteem him 
innocent until direct and sufficient proof shall demonstrate his 
guilt. Now, what does not consist with your own certain 
li.nowledge should be proved by other evidence than your 
i.iort from hearsay.” 





481 


Quentin Durward 

“I think I understand you/’ said the Countess Isabelle. 

“I will make my meaning plainer,” said Quentin; and was 
illustrating it accordingly by more than one instance, when 
the convent-bell tolled.” 

‘ That,” said the countess, “is a signal that we must part— 
part for ever! But do not forget me, Durward ; I will never 
forget you; your faithful services-” 

She could not speak more, but again extended her hand, 
which was again pressed to his lips; and I know not how it 
was that, in endeavouring to withdraw her hand, the countess 
came so close to the grating that Quentin was encouraged to 
press the adieu on her lips. The young lady did not chide 
him; perhaps there was no time, for Crevecoeur and Craw¬ 
ford, who had been from some loophole eye-witnesses, if not 
ear-witnesses also, of what was. passing, rushed into the apart¬ 
ment, the first in a towering passion, the latter laughing and 
holding the count back. V. 

“To your chamber, young mistress—to your chamber!” 
exclaimed the count to Isabelle, who, flinging down her veil, 
retired in all haste, “which should be exchanged for a cell 
and bread and water. And you, gentle sir, who are so mala¬ 
pert, the time will come when the interests of kings and king¬ 
doms may not be connected with such as you are; and you 
shall then learn the penalty of your audacity in raising your 
beggarly eyes-” 

“Hush—hush! enough said—rein up—rein up,” said the 
old lord; “and you, Quentin, I command you, be silent, and 
begone to 5'our quarters. There is no such room for so much 
scorn neither. Sir Count of Crevecoeur, that I must say now 
he is out of hearing. Quentin Durward is as much a gentle¬ 
man as the King, only, as the Spaniard says, not so rich. He 
is as noble as myself, and I am chief of my name. Tush, tush! 
man, you must not speak to us of penalties.” 

“My lord—my lord,” said Crevecoeur, impatiently, “the 
insolence of these foreign mercenaries is proverbial, and sho’dd 




482 Quentin Durward 

receive rather rebuke than encouragement from you, who are 
their leader.” 

“My lord count,” answered Crawford, “I have ordered 
my command for these fifty years without advice either from 
Frenchman or Burgundian; and I intend to do so, under your i 
favour, so long as I shall continue to hold it.” 

“Well—well, my lord,” said Crevecoeur, “I meant you no ; 
disrespect; your nobleness, as well as your age, entitle you to 
be privileged in your impatience; and for these young people, 

I am satisfied to overlook the past, since I will take care that 
they never meet again.” 

“Do not take that upon your salvation, Crevecoeur,” said 
the old lord, laughing; “mountains, it is said, may meet, and 
why not mortal creatures that have legs., and life and love to 
put those legs in motion? Yon kiss, Crevecoeur, came ten¬ 
derly off; methinks it was ominous.” 

“You are striving again to disturb my patience,” said 
Crevecoeur, “but I will not give you that advantage over me. 
Hark! they toll the summons to the castle: an awful meeting, 
of which God only can foretell the issue.” 

“This issue I can foretell,” said the old Scottish lord, 
“that if violence is to be offered to the person of the King, few 
as his friends are, and surrounded by his enemies, he shall 
neither fall alone nor unavenged; and grieved I am that his 
own positive orders have prevented my taking measures to 
prepare for such an issue.” 

“My Lord of Crawford,” said the Burgundian, “to 
anticipate such evil is the sure way to give occasion to it. 
Obey the orders of your royal master, and give no pretext for 
violence by taking hasty offence, and you will find that the 
day will pass over more smoothly than you now conjecture-” 




CHAPTER XXXII. 


THE INVESTIGATION 

Me rather had, my heart might feel your love, 

Than my displeased eye see your courtesy. 

Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know. 

Thus high at least, although your knee— 

King Richard II. 

At the first toll of the bell, which was to summon the 
great nobles of Burgundy together in council, with the very 
few French peers who could be present on the occasion, Duke 
Charles., followed by a part of his train, armed with partisans 
and battle-axes, entered the hall of Herbert’s Tower, in the 
Castle of Peronne. King Louis, who had expected the visit, 
arose and made two steps towards the Duke, and then 
remained standing with an air of dignity, which, in spite of 
the meanness of his dress and the familiarity of his ordinary 
manners, he knew very well how to assume when he judged 
it necessary. Upon the present important crisis, the composure 
of his demeanour had an evident effect upon his rival, who 
changed the abrupt and hasty step with which he entered the 
apartment into one more becoming a great vassal entering the 
presence of his lord paramount. Apparently the Duke had 
formed the internal resolution to treat Louis, in the outset at 
least, with the formalities due to his high station; but at the 
same time it was evident that, in doing so, he put no small 
constraint upon the fiery impatience of his own disposition, 
and was scarce able to control the feelings of resentment and 
the thirst of revenge which boiled in his bosom. Hence,, 
though he compelled himself to use the outward acts, and in 
some degree the language, of courtesy and reverence, his 
colour came and went rapidly; his voice was abrupt, hoarse, 


483 


484 Quentin Durward 

and broken; his limbs shook, as if impadent of the curb 
imposed on his motions; he frowned and bit his lip until the 
blood came; and every look and movement showed that the 
most passionate prince who ever lived was under the dominion 
of one of his most violent paroxysms of fury. 

The King marked this war of passion with a calm and 
untroubled eye; for, though he gathered from the Duke’s 
looks a foretaste of the bitterness of death, which he dreaded 
alike as a mortal and a sinful man, yet he was resolved, like a 
wary and skilful pilot, neither to suffer himself to be discon¬ 
certed by his own fears, nor to abandon the helm, while there 
was a chance of saving the vessel by adroit pilotage. There¬ 
fore, when the Duke, in a hoarse and broken tone, said some¬ 
thing of the scarcity of his accommodations, he answered with 
a smile, that he could not complain, since he had as yet found 
Herbert’s Tower a better residence than it had proved to one 
of his ancestors. 

“They told you the tradition then?” said Charles. “Yes; 
here he was slain, but it was because he refused to take the 
cowl, and finish his days in a monastery.” 

“The more fool he,” said Louis, affecting unconcern, 
“since he gained the torment of being a martyr without the 
merit of being a saint.” 

“I come,” said the Duke, “to pray your Majesty to attend 
a high council, at which things of weight are to be deliberated 
upon concerning the welfare of France and Burgundy. 
You will presently meet them—that is, if such be your 
pleasure-” 

“Nay, my fair cousin,” said the King, “never strain 
courtesy so far as to entreat what you may so boldly command. 
To council, since such is your Grace’s pleasure. We are some¬ 
what shorn of our train,” he added, looking upon the small 
suite that arranged themselves to attend him; “but you, cousin, 
must shine out for us both.” 

Marshalled by Toison d’Or, chief of the heralds of Bur¬ 
gundy, the princes left Earl Herbert’s Tower and entered the 





485 


Quentin Durward 

castle-yard, which Louis observed was filled with the Duke’s 
body-guard and men-at-arms, splendidly accoutred and drawn 
up in martial array. Crossing the court, they entered the 
council-hall, which was in a much more modern part of the 
building than that of which Louis had been the tenant, and, 
though in disrepair, had been hastily arranged for the 
solemnity of a public council. Two chairs of state were 
erected under the same canopy, that for the King being raised 
two steps higher than the one which the Duke was to occupy; 
about twenty of the chief nobility sat, arranged in due order, 
on either hand of the chair of state; and thus, when both the 
princes were seated, the person for whose trial, as it might be 
called, the council was summoned, held the highest place, and 
appeared to preside in it. 

It was perhaps to get rid of this inconsistency, and the 
scruples which might have been inspired by it, that Duke 
Charles, having bowed slightly to the royal chair, bluntly 
opened the sitting with the following words:— 

“My good vassals and counsellors, it is not unknown to 
you what disturbances have arisen in our territories, both in 
our father’s time and in our own, from the rebellion of vassals 
against superiors, and subjects against their princes. And 
lately we have had the most dreadful proof of the height to 
which these evils have arrived in our case by the scandalous 
flight of the Countess Isabelle of Croye, and her aunt the 
Lady Harneline, to take refuge with a foreign power, thereby 
renouncing their fealty to us and inferring the forfeiture of 
their fiefs; and in another more dreadful and deplorable 
instance, by the sacrilegious and bloody murder of our beloved 
brother and ally the Bishop of Liege, and the rebellion of that 
treacherous city, which was but too mildly punished for the 
last insurrection. We have been informed that these ssd 
events may be traced not merely to the inconstancy and folly 
of women and the presumption of pampered citizens, but to 
the agency of foreign power, and the interference of a might" 
neighbour, from whom, if good deeds could merit any return 


486 


Quentin Durward 

in kind, Burgundy could have expected nothing but the most 
sincere and devoted friendship. If this should prove truth,’ 
said the Duke, setting his teeth and pressing his heel agains^! 
the ground, “what consideration shall withhold us, the means 
being in our power, from taking such measures as shall | 
effectually, and at the very source, close up the main springs 
from which these evils have yearly flowed on us?” 

The Duke had begun his speech with some calmness, but; 
he elevated his voice at the conclusion; and the last sentences 
was spoken in a tone which made all the counsellors tremble, 
and brought a transient fit of paleness across the King’s cheek.. 
He instantly recalled his courage, however, and addressed the 
council in his turn, in a tone evincing so much ease and com- i 
posure that the Duke, though he seemed desirous to interrupt 
or stop him, found no decent opportunity to do so.” i 

“Nobles of France and of Burgundy,” he said, “knights of 
the Holy Spirit and of the Golden Fleece,^ since a king must 
plead his cause as an accused person, he cannot desire morel 
distinguished judges than the flower of nobleness and muster’ 
and pride of chivalry. Our fair cousin of Burgundy hath but, 
darkened the dispute between us in so far as his courtesy has, 
declined to state it in precise terms. I, who have no cause for: 
observing such delicacy, nay, whose condition permits me not ^ 
to do so, crave leave to speak more precisely. It is to us, my : 
lords—to us, his liege lord, his kinsman, his ally—that unhappy i 
circumstances, perverting our cousin’s clear judgment and 
better nature, have induced him to apply the hateful charges^ 
of. seducing his vassals from their allegiance, stirring up the 
people of Liege to revolt, and stimulating the outlawed 
William de la Marck to commit a most cruel and sacrilegious i 
murder. Nobles of France and Burgundy, I might truly 
appeal to the circumstances in which I now stand as being in. 
themselves a complete contradiction of such an accusation;, 

^Knights of the Holy Spirit and of the Golden Fleece. The first of these 1^ 
orders, usually termed Knights of the Holy Ghost, was instituted by Henry III. of j 
France. The order of the Golden Fleece was established in 1429 by Philip of | 
Burgundy. j 



Quentin Durward 


487 


! for is it to be supposed that, having the sense of a rational 
being left me, I should have thrown myself unreservedly into 
the power of the Duke of Burgundy, while I was practising 
treachery against him such as could not fail to be discovered, 
and which, being discovered, must place me, as I now stand, 
in the power of a justly exasperated prince? The folly of 
one who should seat himself quietly down to repose on a mine,, 
after he had lighted the match which was to cause instant 
I .explosion, would have been wisdom compared to mine. I have 
no doubt that, amongst the perpetrators of those horrible 
treasons at Schonwaldt, villains have been busy with my 
name; but am I to be answerable, who have given them no 
right to use it? If two silly women, disgusted on account of 
! some romantic cause of displeasure, sought refuge at my court, 

I does it follow that they did so by my direction? It will be 
found, when inquired into, that, since honour and chivalry 
forbade my sending them back prisoners to the court of Bur¬ 
gundy,—which, I think, gentlemen, no one who wears the 
collar of these orders would suggest,—that I came as nearly as 
possible to the same point by placing them in the hands of the 
venerable father in God, who is now a saint in Heaven.” Here 
Louis seemed much affected, and pressed his kerchief to his 
eyes. “In the hands, I say, of a member of my own family, 
and still more closely united with that of Burgundy, whose 
situation, exalted condition in the church, and, alas! whose 
' numerous virtues qualified him to be the protector of these 
unhappy wanderers for a little while, and the mediator betwixt 
them and their liege lord. I say, therefore, the only circum¬ 
stances which seem, in my brother of Burgundy’s hasty view 
of this subject, to argue unworthy suspicions against me are 
such as can be explained on the fairest and most honourable 
motives; and I say, moreover, that no one particle of credible 
evidence can be brought to support the injurious charges which 
have induced my brother to alter his friendly looks towards 
one who came to him in full confidence of friendship, have 



488 Quentin Durward 

caused him to turn his festive hall into a court of justice, and 
his hospitable apartments into a prison.” 

“My lord—my lord,” said Charles, breaking in so soon as 
the King paused,, “for your being here at a time so unluckily 
coinciding 'with the execution of your projects, I can only 
account by supposing that those who make it their trade to 
impose on others do sometimes egregiously delude themselves. 
The engineer is sometimes killed by the springing of his own 
petard.^ For what is to follow, let it depend on the event of 
this solemn inquiry. Bring hither the Countess Isabelle of 
Croye!” 

As the young lady was introduced, supported on the one 
side by the Countess of Crevecoeur, who had her husband’s 
commands to that effect, and on the other by the abbess of the 
Ursuline convent,“ Charles exclaimed with his usual harshness 
of voice and manner, “Soh! sweet princess, you, who could 
scarce find breath to answer us when we last laid our just and 
reasonable commands on you, yet have had wdnd enough to 
run as long a course as ever did hunted doe, what think you of 
the fair work you have made between two great princes and 
two mighty countries, that have been like to go to war for 
your baby face?” 

The publicity of the scene and the violence of Charles’s 
manner totally overcame the resolution which Isabelle had 
formed of throwing herself at the Duke’s feet, and imploring 
him to take possession of her estates and permit her to retire 
into a cloister. She stood motionless like a terrified female in 
a storm who hears the thunder roll on every side of her, and 
apprehends in every fresh peal the bolt which is to strike her 
dead. The Countess of Crevecoeur, a woman of spirit equal 
to her birth, and to the beauty which she preserved even in her 
matronly years, judged it necessary to interfere. “My lord 

^Petard. A rude, bell-shaped mortar, anciently used in exploding gates and 
doors. The word appears in an old proverb, to be “hoist with his own petard,” 
i. e. to be beaten with one’s own weapons. {Hamlet, III., 4, 205). 

^Ursuline convent. The order of the Ursulines was established in 1537, for 
the nursing of the sick and the teaching of young girls. The name is taken from 
St. Ursula. 





489 


Quentin Durward 

duke,” she said,, “my fair cousin is under my protection. I 
know better than your Grace how women should be treated, 
and we will leave this presence instantly, unless you use a tone 
and language more suitable to our rank and sex.” 

The Duke burst out into a laugh. “Crevecoeur,” he said, 
“thy tameness hath made a lordly dame of thy countess; but 
that is no affair of mine. Give a seat to yonder simple girl, to 
whom, so far from feeling enmity, I design the highest grace 
and honour. .Sit down, mistress, and tell us at your leisure 
what fiend possessed you to fly from your native country, and 
embrace the trade of a damsel adventurous.” 

With much pain, and not without several interruptions, 
Isabelle confessed that, being absolutely determined against 
a match proposed to her by the Duke of Burgundy, she had 
indulged the hope of obtaining protection of the court of 
France. 

“And under protection of the French monarch,” said 
Charles. “Of that, doubtless,, you were well assured?” 

“I did indeed so think myself assured,” said the Countess 
Isabelle, “otherwise I had not taken a step so decided.” Here 
Charles looked upon Louis with a smile of inexpressible bit¬ 
terness, which the King supported with the utmost firmness, 
except that his lip grew something whiter than it was wont to 
be. “But my information concerning King Louis’s intentions 
towards us,” continued the countess, after a short pause, “was 
almost entirely derived from my unhappy aunt, the Lady 
Hameline, and her opinions were formed upon the assertions 
and insinuations of persons whom I have since discovered to 
be the vilest traitors and most faithless wretches in the world.” 
She then stated, in brief terms, what she had since come to 
learn of the treachery of Marthon, and of Hayraddin Mau- 
grabin, and added that “she entertained no doubt that the 
elder Maugrabin, called Zamet, the original adviser of their 
flight, was capable of every species of treachery, as well as of 
assuming the character of an agent of Louis without authority. 

There was a pause while the countess had continued her 


490 


Quentin Durwaru 

story, which she prosecuted, though very briefly, from the time 
she left the territories of Burgundy, in company with her 
'aunt, until the storming of Schonwaldt, and her final sur¬ 
render to the Count of Crevecceur. All remained mute after 
she had finished her brief and broken narrative, and the Duke 
of Burgundy bent his fierce dark eyes on the ground, like one 
who seeks for a pretext to indulge his passion, but finds none 
sufficiently plausible to justify himself in his. own eyes. “The 
mole,” he said at length, looking upwards, “winds not his 
dark subterranean path beneath our feet the less certainly, that 
we, though conscious of his motions, cannot absolutely trace 
them. Yet I would know of King Louis, wherefore he main¬ 
tained these ladies at his court, had they not gone thither by 
his own invitation.” 

“I did not so entertain them, fair cousin,” answered the 
King. “Out of compassion, indeed, I received them in privacy, 
but took an early opportunity of placing them under the pro¬ 
tection of the late excellent bishop, your own ally, and who 
was—may God assoiD him!—a better judge than I, or any 
secular prince, how to reconcile the protection due to fugitives 
with the duty which a king owes to his ally from whose 
dominions they have fled. I boldly ask this young lady 
whether my reception of them was cordial or whether it was 
not, on the contrary, such as made them express regret that 
they had made my court their place of refuge?” 

“So much was it otherwise than cordial,” answered the 
countess, “that it induced me, at least, to doubt how tar it was 
possible that your Majesty should have actually given the 
invitation of which we had been assured by those who called 
themselves your agents; since, supposing them to have pro¬ 
ceeded only as they were duly authorised, it would have been 
hard to reconcile your Majesty’s conduct with that to be 
expected from a king, a knight, and a gentleman.” 

The countess turned her eyes to the King as she spoke, 
with a look which was probably intended as a reproach, but 

^Assoil. Absolve, release. 




491 


QuENi^N Durward 

the breast of Louis was armed against all such artillery. On 
the contrary, waving slowly his expanded hands, and looking 
around the circle, he seemed to make a triumphant appeal to 
all present upon the testimony borne to his innocence in the 
countess’s reply. 

Burgundy, meanwhile, cast on him a look which seemed 
to say that, if in some degree silenced, he was as far as ever 
from being satisfied, and then said abruptly to the countess, 
“Methinks, fair mistress, in this account of your wanderings, 
you have forgot all mention of certain love-passages. So, ho! 
blushing already? Certain knights of the forest, by whom 
your quiet was for a time interrupted. Well, that incident 
hath come to our ear, and something we may presently form 
out of it. Tell me, King Louis, were it not well, before this 
vagrant Helen of Troy, or of Croye, set more kings by the 
ears—were it not well to carve out a fitting match for her?” 

King Louis, though conscious what ungrateful proposal 
was likely to be made next, gave a calm and silent assent to 
what Charles said; but the countess herself was restored to 
courage by the very extremity of her situation. She quitted 
the arm of the Countess of Crevecoeur, on which she had 
hitherto leaned, came forward timidly, yet with an air of 
dignity, and, kneeling before the Duke’s throne, thus addressed 
him: “Noble Duke, of Burgundy, and my liege lord, I 
acknowledge my fault in having withdrawn myself from your 
dominions without your gracious permission, and will most 
humbly acquiesce in any penalty you are pleased to impose. I 
place my lands and castles at your rightful disposal, and pray 
you only of your own bounty, and for the sake of my father’s 
memory, to allow the last of the line of Croye, out of her 
large estate, such a moderate maintenance as may find her 
admission into a convent for the remainder of her life.” 

“What think you, sire, of the young person’s petition to 
us?” said the Duke, addressing Louis. 

“As of a holy and humble motion,” said the King, “which 


492 Quentin DtiRWARD 

doubtless comes from that grace which ought not to be resisted 
or withstood.” 

“The humble and lowl}^ shall be exalted,” said Charles. 
“Arise, Countess Isabelle; we mean better for you than you 
have devised for yourself. We mean neither to sequestrate 
5^our estates nor to abase your honours, but, on the contrary, 
will add largely to both.” 

“Alas! my lord,” said the countess, continuing on her 
knees, “it is even that well-meant goodness which I fear still 
more than your Grace’s displeasure, since it compels me-” 

“St. George of Burgundy!” said Duke Charles, “is our 
will to be thwarted, and our commands disputed, at every 
turn? Up, I say, minion, and withdraw for the present; 
when we have time to think of thee, we will so order matters 
that, Teste-St. Gris!^ you shall either obey us or do worse.” 

Notwithstanding this stern answer., the Countess Isabelle 
remained at his feet, and would probably, by her pertinacity, 
have driven him to say upon the spot something yet more 
severe, had not the Countess of Crevecoeur, who better knew 
that prince’s humour, interfered to raise her young friend, and 
to conduct her from the hall. 

Quentin Durward was now summoned to appear, and 
presented himself before the King and Duke with that free¬ 
dom, distant alike from bashful reserve and intrusive boldness, 
which becomes a youth at once well-born and well-nurtured, 
who gives honour where it is due, but without permitting 
himself to be dazzled or confused by the presence of those to 
whom it is to be rendered. Kis uncle had furnished him with 
the means of again equipping himself in the arms and dress of 
an archer of the Scottish Guard, and his complexion, mien, 
and air suited in an uncommon degree his splendid appearance. 
His extreme 3^outh, too, prepossessed the counsellors in his 
favour, the rather that no one could easily believe that the 
sagacious Louis would have chosen so very young a person to 
become the confidant of political intrigues; and thus the King 

^Teste-St.-Gris. Head of Chn.t;t. 





493 


Quentin Durward 

enjoyed, in this as in other cases, considerable advantage from 
his singular choice of agents, both as to age and rank, where 
such election seemed least likely to be made. At the command- 
of the Duke, sanctioned by that of Louis, Quentin commenced 
an account of his journey with the Ladies of Croye to the 
neighbourhood of Liege, premising a statement of King 
Louis’s instructions, which were that he should escort them 
safely to the castle of the bishop. 

“And you obeyed my orders accordingly?” said the King. 

“I did, sire,” replied the Scot. 

“You omit a circumstance,” said the Duke. “You were 
set upon in the forest by two wandering knights.” 

“It does not become me to remember or to proclaim such 
an incident,” said the youth, blushing ingenuously. 

“But it doth not become me to forget it,” said the Duke of 
Orleans. “This youth discharged Tis commission manfully, 
and maintained his trust in a manner that I shall long remem¬ 
ber. Come to my apartment, archer, when this matter is 
over, and thou shalt find I have not forgot thy brave bearing, 
while I am glad to see it is equalled by thy modesty.” 

“And come to mine,” said Dunois. “I have a helmet for 
thee, since I think I owe thee one.” 

Quentin bowed low to both, and the examination was 
resumed. At the command of Duke Charles, he produced the 
written instructions which he had received for the direction of 
his journey. 

“Did you follow these instructions literally, soldier?” said 
the Duke. 

“No, if it please your Grace,” replied Quentin. “They 
directed me, as you may be pleased to observe, to cross the 
Maes near Namur; whereas I kept the left bank, as being 
both the nigher and the safer road to Liege.” 

“And wherefore that alteration ?” said the Duke. 

“Because I began to suspect the fidelity of my guide,” 
answered Quentin. 

“Now mark the questions I have next to ask thee,” said 


494 


Quentin Durward 

the Duke. “Reply truly to them, and fear nothing from the 
resentment of any one. But if you palter or double in your 
answers, I will have thee hung alive in an iron chain from the 
steeple of the market-house, where thou shalt wish for death 
for many an hour ere he come to relieve you!” i 

There was a deep silence ensued. At length, having given i 
the youth time, as he thought, to consider the circumstances in 
which he was placed, the Duke demanded to know of Dur¬ 
ward who his guide was,, by whom supplied, and wherefore he J 
had been led to entertain suspicion of him? To the first of 
these questions Quentin Durward answered by naming Hay- 
raddin Maugrabin, the Bohemian; to the second, that the ’ 
guide had been recommended by Tristan THermite; and in < 
reply to the third point, he mentioned what had happened in i 
the Franciscan convent, near Namur; how the Bohemian had 
been expelled from the holy house, and how, jealous of his , 
behaviour, he had dogged him to a rendezvous wdth one of 
William de la March’s lanzknechts, where he overheard them ! 
arrange a plan for surprising the ladies who were under his 
protection. 5 

“Now hark thee,” said the Duke, “and once more remem¬ 
ber thy life depends on thy veracity, did these villains mention 
their having this king’s—I mean this very King Louis of 
France’s—authority for their scheme of surprising the escort » 
and carrying away the ladies?” 

“If such infamous fellows had said so,” replied Quentin, 

“I know not how I should have believed them, having the 
word of the King himself to place in opposition to theirs.” 

Louis, who had listened hitherto with most earnest atten¬ 
tion, could not help drawing his breath deeply when he heard 
Durward’s answer, in the manner of one from whose bosom 
a heavy weight has been at once removed. The Duke again 
looked disconcerted and moody; and, returning to the charge, ^ 
questioned Quentin still more closely, whether he did not 
understand, from these men’s private conversation, that the 
plots which they meditated had King Louis’s sanction ? * 





Quentin Durward 495 

“I repeat that I heard nothing which could authorise me 
I to say so,” answered the young man, who, though internally 
convinced of the King’s accession to the treachery of Hay- 
raddin, yet held it contrary to his allegiance to bring forward 
his own suspicions on the subject; “and if I had heard such 
men make such an assertion, I again say that I would not have 
given their testimony weight against the instructions of the 
King himself.” 

“Thou art a faithful messenger,,” said the Duke, with a 
sneer; “and I venture to say that, in obeying the King’s in¬ 
structions, thou has disappointed his expectations in a manner 
that thou mightst have smarted for, but that subsequent events 
have made thy bull-headed fidelity seem like good service.” 

“I understand you not, my lorcT,” said Quentin Durward; 
“all I know is, that my master King Louis sent me to protect 
these ladies, and that I did so accordingly, to the extent of my 
ability, both in the journey to Schonwaldt and through the 
subsequent scenes which took place. I understood the instruc¬ 
tions of the King to be honourable, and I executed them hon¬ 
ourably; had they been of a different tenor, they would not 
have suited one of my name or nation.” 

*'Fter comme un Ecossots/* said Charles, who, however 
disappointed at the tenor of Durward’s reply, was not unjust 
enough to blame him for his boldness. “But hark thee, archer, 
what instructions were those which made thee, as some sad 
fugitives from Schonwaldt have informed us, parade the 
streets of Liege, at the head of those mutineers who after¬ 
wards cruelly murdered their temporal prince and spiritual 
father? And what harangue was it which thou didst make 
after that murder was committed, in which you took upon 
you, as agent for Louis, to assume authority among the villains 
who had just perpetrated so great a crime?” 

“My lord,” said Quentin, “there are many who could 
testify that I assumed not the character of an envoy of France 
in the town of Liege, but had it fixed upon me by the obstinate 
clamours of the people themselves, who refused to give credit 



496 Quentin Durward * 

to any disclamation which I could make. This I told to those j 
in the service of the hishop when I had made my escape from 
the city, and recommended their attention to the security of 
the castle, which might have prevented the calamity and 
horror of the succeeding night. It is, no doubt, true that I I 
did,, in the extremity of danger, avail myself of the influence j 
which my imputed character gave me, to save the Countess i 
Isabelle, to protect my own life, and so far as I could to rein 
in the humour for slaughter, which had already broke out in ' 
so dreadful an instance. I repeat, and will maintain it with , 
my body, that I had no commission of any kind from the King 
of France respecting the people of Liege, far less instructions 
to instigate them to mutiny; and that, finally, when I did 
avail myself of that imputed character, it was as if I had I 
snatched up a shield to protect myself in a moment of emerg- • 
ency, and used it, as I should surely have done, for the defence ; 
of myself and others, without inquiring whether I had a right i 
to the heraldic emblazonments which it displayed.” 

“And therein my young companion and prisoner,” said I 
Crevecoeur, unable any longer to remain silent, “acted with . 
equal spirit and good sense; and his doing so cannot justly be ; 
imputed as blame to King Louis.” i 

There was a murmur of assent among the surrounding 
nobility which sounded joyfully in the ears of King Louis, , 
whilst it gave no little offence to Charles. He rolled his eyes • 
angrily around; and the sentiments, so generally expressed by 
so many of his highest vassals and wisest counsellors., would , 
not perhaps have prevented his giving way to his violent and ' 
despotic temper, had not Des Comines, who foresaw the dan¬ 
ger, prevented it by suddenly announcing a herald from the 
city of Liege. 

“A herald from weavers and nailers!” exclaimed the i 
Duke, “but admit him instantly. By Our Lady, I will learn i 
from this same herald something further of his employers’ * 
hopes and projects than this young French-Scottish man-at- 
arms seems desirous to tell me!” 





CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE HERALD 

Artel. - Hark! they roar. 

Prospero. Let them be hunted soundly. 

The Tempest. 


There was room made in the assembly, and no small 
curiosity evinced by those present to see the herald whom the 
insurgent Liegeois had ventured to send to so haughty a prince 
as the Duke of Burgundy, while in such high indignation 
against them. For it must be remembered that at this period 
heralds were only despatched from sovereign princes to each 
other upon solemn occasions; and that the inferior nobility 
employed pursuivants, a lower rank of officers-at-arms. It may 
be also noticed in passing, that Louis XL, an habitual derider 
of whatever did not promise real power or substantial advan¬ 
tage, w^as in especial a professed contemnor of heralds and 
heraldry, “red, blue, and green, with all their trumpery,” ^ to 
which the pride of his rival Charles, which was of a very differ¬ 
ent kind, attached no small degree of ceremonious importance. 

The herald who was now introduced into the presence of 
the monarchs, was dressed in a tabard," or coat, embroidered 
with the arms of his master, in which the boar’s head made a 
distinguished appearance, in blazonry which, in the opinion of 
the skilful was more showy than accurate. The rest of his 

dress_a dress always sufficiently tawdrj^—was overcharged 

with lace, embroidery, and ornament of every kind; and the 
plume of feathers wffiich he wore was so high, as if intended 
to sweep the roof of the hall. In short, the usual gaudy splen- 


1 Red, blue and green, etc. See note 33 at end of the novel. 
tTabard. Usually a sleeveless coat worn by the heralds; the arms of the sov¬ 
ereign were emblazoned on the front, and it is from this that the phrase coat of arms 
is derived. 


497 



498 


Quentin Durward 

dour of the heraldic attire was caricatured and overdone. The 
boar’s head was not only repeated on every part of his dress, 
but even his bonnet was formed into that shape, and it was 
represented with gory tongue and bloody tusks, or, in proper 
language, “langued and dentated gules”; and there was some¬ 
thing in the man’s appearance which seemed to imply a mixture 
of boldness and apprehension, like one who has undertaken a 
dangerous commission, and is sensible that audacity alone can 
carry him through it with safetj^ Something of the same mix¬ 
ture of fear and effrontery was visible in the manner in which 
he paid his respects, and he showed also a grotesque awkward¬ 
ness, not usual amongst those who were accustomed to be 
received in the presence of princes. 

“Who art thou, in the devil’s name?” was the greeting 
with which Charles the Bold received this singular envoy. 

“I am Rouge Sanglier,”^ answered the herald, “the officer- 
at-arms of William de la Marck, by the grace of God" and the 

election of the chapter Prince Bishop of Liege-” 

Ha! exclaimed Charles; but, as if subduing his own 
passion,, he made a sign to him to proceed. 

“And, in right of his wife, the Honourable Countess Hame- 
line of Croye, Count of Croye and Lord of Bracquemont.” 

The utter astonishment of Duke Charles at the extremity 
of boldness with which these titles were announced in his 
presence seemed to strike him dumb; and the herald, con¬ 
ceiving, doubtless, that he had made a suitable impression by 
the annunciation of his character, proceeded to state his 
errand. 

'‘Annuncio vohis gaudium magnuni!'^ he said; “I let you, 
Charles of Burgundy and Earl of Flanders, to know, in my 
master s name, that under favour of a dispensation of our 
Holy Father of Rome, presently expected, and appointing a 
fitting substitute ad sacra,^ he proposes to exercise at once the 

* Rouge Sanglier. Red Boar. 

^Annuncio, etc. I announce to you tidings of great joy. 
sacra. For holy things. 




Quentin Durward 499 

office of Prince Bishop, and maintain the rights of Count of 
Cro)^e.” 

The Duke of Burgundy, at this and other pauses in the 
herald’s speech, only ejaculated “Ha!” or some similar 
interjection, without making any answer; and the tone of 
exclamation was that of one who, though surprised and 
moved, .is willing to hear all that is to be said ere he commits 
himself by making an answer. To the further astonishment 
of all wffio were present he forebore from his usual abrupt and 
violent gesticulations, remaining with the nail of his thumb 
pressed against his teeth, which w^as his favourite attitude 
when giving attention, and keeping his eyes bent on the ground 
as if unwilling to betray the passion which might gleam in 
them. 

The envoy, therefore, proceeded boldly and unabashed in 
the delivery of his message. “In the name, therefore, of the 
Prince Bishop of Liege and Count of Croye, I am to require 
of you, Duke Charles, to desist from those pretensions and 
encroachments which you have made on the free and imperial 
city of Liege, by connivance wdth the late Louis of Bourbon, 
unworthy bishop thereof.” 

“Hal” again exclaimed the Duke. 

“Also to restore the banners of the community, which you 
took violently from the town, to the number of six-and-thirty, 
to rebuild the breaches in their walls, and restore the fortifica¬ 
tions which you tyrannically dismantled, and to acknowledge 
my master, William de la Marck, as Prince Bishop, lawfully 
elected in a free chapter of canons, of which behold the 
proces-verbal.”^ 

“Have you finished?” said the Duke. 

“Not yet,” replied the envoy: “I am further to require 
your Grace, on the part of the said right noble and venerable 
prince, bishop,, and count, that you do presently withdraw the 
garrison from the Castle of Bracquemont, and other places of 
strength, belonging to the earldom of Croye, which have been 

^Prochs-verbal. A written statement. 



500 


Quentin Durward 

placed there, whether in your own most gracious name, or in 
that of Isabelle, calling herself Countess of Croye, or any 
other, until it shall be decided by the Imperial Diet whether 
the fiefs in question shall not pertain to the sister of the late 
count, my most gracious Lady Hameline, rather than to his 
daughter, in respect of the jus emphyteusis} 

“Your master is most learned,” replied the Duke. 

“Yet,” continued the herald, “the noble and venerable 
,prince and count will be disposed, all other disputes betwdxt 
Burgundy and Liege being settled, to fix upon the Lady 
Isabelle such an appanage as may become her quality.” 

“He is generous and considerate,,” said the Duke, in the 
same tone. 

“Now, by a poor fool’s conscience,” said Le Glorieux 
apart to the Count of Crevecoeur, “I would rather be in the 
worst cow’s hide that ever died of the murrain than, in that 
fellow’s painted coat! The poor man goes on like drunkards, 
who only look to the other pot, and not to the score which 
mine host chalks up behind the lattice.” 

“Have you yet done?” said the Duke to the herald. 

“One word more,” answered Rouge Sangller, “from my 
noble and venerable lord aforesaid, respecting his worthy and 
trusty ally, the Most Christian King-” 

“Ha!” exclaimed the Duke, starting, and in a fiercer tone 
than he had yet used; but checking himself, he instantly com¬ 
posed himself again to attention. 

“Which Most Christian King’s royal person it is rumouied 
that you, Charles of Burgundy, have placed under restraint, 
contrary to your duty as a vassal of the crown of France, and 
to the faith observed among Christian sovereigns; for which 
reason, my said noble and venerable master, by my mouth, 
charges you to put his Royal and Most Christian ally forth¬ 
with at freedom, or to receive the defiance which I am author¬ 
ised to pronounce to you.” » 

^Jus emphyteusis. The law whereby one person acquires a perpetual right 
to the use of land that belongs to another person. 




Quentin Durward 50i 

“Have you yet done?” said the Duke. 

I have, answered the herald, “and await your Grace’s 
I answer, trusting it may be such as will save the effusion of 
Christian blood.” 

“Now, by St. George of Burgundy-” said the Duke; 

but ere he could proceed further, Louis arose, and struck in 
with a tone of so much dignity and authority that Charles 
could not interrupt him. 

“Under your favour, fair cousin of Burgundy,” said the 
King; “we ourselves crave priority of voice in replying to this 
insolent fellow. Sirrah herald, or whatever thou art, carry 
back notice to the perjured outlaw and murderer, William de 
la Marck, that the King of France will be presently before 
Liege, for the purpose of punishing the sacrilegious murderer 
of his late beloved kinsman, Louis of Bourbon; and that he 
proposes to gibbet De la Marck alive, for the insolence of 
terming himself his ally, and putting his royal name into the 
mouth of one of his own base messengers.” 

“Add whatever else on my part,” said Charles, “which it 
I may not misbecome a prince to send to a common thief and 
I murderer. And begone! Yet stay. Never herald went from 
the court of Burgundy without having cause to cry, ‘Lar¬ 
gesse!’^ Let him be scourged till the bones are laid bare!” 

“Nay, but if it please your Grace,” said Crevecoeur and 
D’Hymbercourt together, “he is a herald, and so far 
privileged.” 

“It is you, messires,” replied the Duke, “who are such 
owls as to think that the tabard makes the herald. I see by 
that fellow’s blazoning he is a mere impostor. Let Toison 
d’Or step forward and question hirn in your presence.” 

In spite of his natural effrontery, the envoy of the Wild 
Boar of Ardennes now became pale, and that notwithstanding 
some touches of paint with which he had adorned his counte¬ 
nance. Toison d’Or, the chief herald, as we have elsewhere 

^Largesse. A gift; the heralds’ cry in solicitation of a present or fee, at the 
close of their official duties. 




502 


Quentin Durward 

said, of the Duke, and king-at-arms within his dominions, 
stepped forward with the solemnity of one who knew what 
was due to his office, and asked his supposed brother in what 
college he had studied the science which he professed. 

“I was bred a pursuivant at the Heraldic College of Ratis- 
bon,” answered Rouge Sanglier, “and received the diploma of 
ehrenhold'^ from the same learned fraternity.” 

“You could not derive it from a source more worthy,” 
answered Toison d’Or, bowing still lower than he had done 
before; “and if I presume to confer with you on the mysteries 
of our sublime science, in obedience to the orders of the most 
gracious Duke, it is not in hopes of giving, but of receiving, 
knowledge.” 

“Go to,” said the Duke, impatiently. “Leave off cere¬ 
mony, and ask him some question that may try his skill.” 

“It were injustice to ask a disciple of the worthy 
College of Arms at Ratisbon if he comprehendeth the common 
terms of blazonry,” said Toison d’Or; “but I may, without 
offence, crave of Rouge Sanglier to say if he is instructed in 
the more mysterious and secret terms of the science, by which 
the more learned do emblematically, as it were parabolically, 
express to each other what is conveyed to others in the ordi¬ 
nary language, taught in the very accidence as it were of 
heraldry?” 

“I understand one sort of blazonry as well as another,” 
answered Rouge Sanglier, boldly; “but it may be we have not 
the same terms in Germany which you have here in Flanders.” 

“Alas, that you will say so!” replied Toison d’Or; “our 
noble science, which is indeed the very banner of nobleness 
and glory of generosity, being the same in all Christian 
countries, nay, known and acknowledged even by the Saracens 
and Moors. I would, therefore, pray of you to describe what 
coat you will after the celestial fashion, that is by the planets.” 

“Blazon it yourself as you will,” said Rouge Sanglier; “I 

^Ehrenhold. German for herald. A pursuivant is an attendant on the 
heralds; and the Heraldic College was the official training-school in the science of 
heraldry. 



503 


Quentin Durward 


will do no such apish tricks upon commandment, as an ape is 
made to come aloft.” 

“Show him a coat, and let him blazon it his own way,” 
said the Duke; “and if he fails, I promise him that his back 
shall be gules, azure, and sable.^ 

“Here,” said the herald of . Burgundy, taking from his 
pouch a piece of parchment, “is a scroll, in which certain con¬ 
siderations led me to prick down, after my own poor fashion, 
an ancient coat. I will pray my brother, if indeed he belong 
to the honourable College of Arms at Ratisbon, to decipher it 
in fitting language.” 

Le Glorieux, who seemed to take great pleasure in this 
discussion, had by this time bustled himself close up to the two 
heralds. “I will help thee, good fellow,” said he to Rouge 
Sanglier, as he looked hopelessly upon the scroll. “This, my 
lords and masters, represents the cat looking out at the dairy- 
window.” 

This sally occasioned a laugh, which was something to the 
advantage of Rouge Sanglier, as it led Toison d’Or, indignant 
at the misconstruction of his drawing, to explain it as the 
coat-of-arms assumed by Childebert, King of France, after he 
had taken prisoner Gondemar, King of Burgundy, represent¬ 
ing an ounce, or tiger-cat, the emblem of the captive prince, 
behind a grating, or, as Toison d’Or technically defined it,‘ 
“Sable, a musion passant or, oppressed with a trellis gules, 
cloue of the second.” ^ 

“By my bauble,” said Le Glorieux, “if the cat resemble 
Burgundy, she has the right side of the grating nowadays.” 

“True, good fellow,” said Louis, laughing, while the rest 
of the presence, and even Charles himself, seemed disconcerted 
at so broad a jest—“I owe thee a piece of gold for turning 


iCules, azure, and sable. Heraldic terms indicating the colors red, blue, and 
)Iack. 

^ Sable, a musion passant or, etc, Coats-of-arms were described thus in 
leraldic phrase; in this case we may translate as follows: On a black ground, a 
dldcat in gold, walking, behind a grating colored red, studded with nads m gold. 



504 


Quentin Durward 

something that looked like sad earnest into the merry game 
which I trust it will end in.” 

“Silence, Le Glorieux.,” said the Duke; “and you, Toison 
d’Or, w’ho are too learned to be intelligible, stand back; and 
bring that rascal forward, some of 3^ou. Hark ye, villain,” 
he said in his harshest tone, “do you know the difference 
between argent and or,^ except in the shape of coined money?” 

“For pity’s sake, your Grace, be good unto me! Noble 
King Louis speak for me!” 

“Speak for thyself,” said the Duke. “In a word, art thou 
herald or not?” 

“Only for this occasion!” acknowledged the detected 
official. 

“Now% by St. George!” said the Duke, eyeing Louis 
askance, “we know no king—no gentleman—save one, who 
w’ould have so prostituted the noble science on which royalty 
and gentry rest, save that king, w^ho sent to Edward of Eng¬ 
land a serving man disguised as a herald.” ^ 

“Such a stratagem,” said Louis., laughing or affecting to 
laugh, “could only be justified at a court where no heralds 
were at the time, and when the emergency was urgent. But, 
though it might have passed on the blunt and thick-witted 
islander, no one with brains a whit better than those of a wild 
boar would have thought of passing such a trick upon the 
accomplished court of Burgundy.” 

“Send him who will,” said the Duke, fiercely, “he shall 
return to their hands in poor case. Here!—drag him to the 
market-place—slash him with bridle-reins and dog-whips until 
the tabard hang about him in tatters! Upon the Rouge 
Sanglier!—ga, ga! Haloo, haloo!” 

Four or five large hounds, such as are painted in the 
hunting-pieces upon which Rubens and Schneiders laboured in 
conjunction, caught the well-known notes with which the 


Argent and or. Silver and gold. 

"^Disguised as a herald. See Note 33 at end of the novel. 



505 


Quentin Durward 

Duke concluded, and began to yell and bay as if the boar were 
just roused from his lair. 

“By the rood!” said King Lo,uis, observant to catch the 
vein of his dangerous cousin, “since the ass has put on the 
boar’s hide, I would set the dogs on him to bait him out of it!” 

“Right — right!” exclaimed Duke Charles, the fancy 
exactly chiming in with his humour at the moment—“it shall 
be done! Uncouple the hounds! Hyke a Talbot! hyke a 
Beaumont!^ We will course him from the door of the castle 
to the east gate.” 

“I trust your Grace will treat me as a beast of chase,” said 
the fellow,, putting the best face he could upon the matter, 
and allow me fair law?”^ 

“Thou art but vermin,” said the Duke, “and entitled to 
no law, by the letter of the book of hunting; nevertheless, 
thou shalt have sixty yards in advance, were it but for the sake 
of thy unparalleled impudence. Away—away, sirs! we will 
see this sport.” And the council breaking up tumultuously, 
all hurried, none faster than the two princes, to enjoy the 
humane pastime which King Louis had suggested. 

The Rouge Sanglier showed excellent sport; for, winged 
with terror, and having half a score of fierce boar-hounds hard 
at his haunches, encouraged by the blowing of horns and the 
woodland cheer of the hunters, he flew like the very wind, 
and had he not been encumbered with his herald’s coat (the 
worst possible habit for a runner), he might fairly have 
escaped dog-free; he also doubled once or twice, in a manner 
much approved of by the spectators. None of these, nay, not 
even Charles himself, was so delighted with the sport as King 
Louis., who partly from political considerations, and partly as 
being naturally pleased with the sight of human suffering 
when ludicrously exhibited, laughed till the tears ran from 
his eyes, and in his ecstasies of rapture caught hold of the 
Duke’s ermine cloak, as if to support himself; whilst the 

1 Hyke a Talbot, etc. A hunter’s cry to his dogs. ^ 

^Fair law. It was the custom of thr chase to allow true game a fair start 
before the pursuit began. 


506 ' Quentin Durward 

Duke, no less delighted, flung his arm around the King s 
shoulder, making thus an exhibition of confidential sympathy 
and familiarity very much at variance with the t^rms on which 
they had so lately stood together. 

At length the speed of the pseudo-herald could save him 
no longer from the fangs of his pursuers: they seized him, 
pulled him down, and would probably soon have throttled 
him, had not the Duke called out—“Stave and tail!—stave 
and tail!^ Take them off him! He hath shown so good a 
course that, though he has made no sport at bay, we will not 
have him despatched.” 

Several officers accordingly busied themselves in taking off 
the dogs; and they were soon seen coupling some up, and 
pursuing others which ran through the streets, shaking in 
sport and triumph the tattered fragments of painted cloth and 
embroidery rent from the tabard, which the unfortunate 
wearer had put on in an unlucky hour. 

At this moment, and while the Duke was too much 
engaged with what passed before him to mind what was said 
behind him, Oliver le Dain, gliding behind King Louis, whis¬ 
pered into his ear—“It is the Bohemian, Hayraddin Mau- 
grabin. It were not well he should come to speech of the 
Duke.” 

“He must die,” answered Louis, in the same tone; “dead 
men tell no tales.” 

One instant afterwards, Tristan I’Hermite, to whom 
Oliver had given the hint, stepped forward before the King 
and the Duke, and said in his blunt manner, “So please your 
Majesty and your Grace, this piece of game is mine, and I 
claim him; he is marked with my stamp: the fleur-de-lys is 
branded on his shoulder, as all men may see. He is a known 
villain, and hath slain the Kings subjects, robbed churches, 
deflowered virgins, slain deer in the royal parks-” 

“Enough—enough,” said Duke Charles; “he is my royal 

yStave and tail. A command given when the dogs have pulled down their chase: 
to strike the game with a stall and pull off the dogs by the tail. 




Quentix Durward 


507 


cousin’s property by many a good title. What will your 
Majesty do with him?” 

“If he is left to my disposal,” said the King, “I will at 
least give him one lesson in the science of heraldry, in which 
he is so ignorant—only explain to him practically the meaning 
of a cross potence} with a noose dangling proper.” 

“Not as to be by him borne, but as to bear him. Let him 
take the degrees under your gossip Tristan; he is a deep 
professor in such mysteries.” 

Thus answered the Duke, with a burst of discordant 
laughter at his own wit, which was so cordially chorussed by 
Louis that his rival could not help looking kindly at him, 
while he said— 

“Ah, Louis—Louis! would to God thou wert as faithful 
a monarch as thou art a merry companion! I cannot but 
think often on the jovial time we used to spend together.” 

“You may bring it back when you will,” said Louis: “I 
will grant you as fair terms as for very shame’s sake you 
ought to ask in my present condition, without making yourself 
the fable of Christendom; and I will swear to observe them 
upon the holy relique which I have ever the grace to bear 
about my person, being a fragment of the true cross.” 

Here he took a small golden reliquary, which was sus¬ 
pended from his neck next to his shirt by a chain of the same 
metal, and having kissed it devoutly, continued— 

“Never was false oath sworn on this most sacred relique 
hut it was avenged within the j’ear.” 

“Yet,” said the Duke, .“it was the same on which you 
swore amity to me when you left Burgundy,^ and shortly after 
sent the Bastard of Rubempre to murder or kidnap me.” 

“Nay, gracious cousin, now you are ripping up ancient 
grievances,” said the King: “I promise you that you were 
deceived in that matter. Moreover, it was not upon this 

^Cross potence. Gallows. 

^Burgundy. During the five years preceeding his accession, Louis was 
estranged from his father, Charles VII. and a fugitive from France; this period he 
passed as a guest at the court of Burgundy. 



508 


Quentin Durward 

relique which I then swore, but upon another fragment of the - 
true cross which I got from the Grand Seignior,^ weakened in ^ 
virtue, doubtless, by sojourning with infidels. Besides, did 
not the war of the ‘public good’ break out within the year; I 
and was not a Burgundian army encamped at St. Denis, 1 
backed by all the great feudatories of France; and was I not I 
obliged to yield up Normandy to my brother? O God,, shield i 
us from perjury on such a warrant as this!” j 

“Well, cousin,” answered the Duke, “I do believe thou 
hadst a lesson to keep faith another time. And now for once, j 
without finesse and doubling, will you make good your 
promise, and go with me to punish this murdering La Marck 
and the Liegeois?” 

“I will march against them,” said Louis, “with the ban 
and arriere-ban “ of France, and the oriflamme displayed.” 

“Na)^—nay,” said the Duke, “that is more than is needful, 
or maybe advisable. The presence of your Scottish Guard 
and two hundred choice lances will serve to show that you are 
a free agent. A large army might-” 

“Make me so in effect, you would say, my fair cousin?” 
said the King. “Well, you shall dictate the numbers of my 
attendants.” 

“And to put this fair cause of mischief out of the way, 
you will agree to the Countess Isabelle of Croye wedding with 
the Duke of Orleans?” 

“Fair cousin,” said the King, “you drive my courtesy to 
extremity. The Duke is the betrothed bridegroom of my 
daughter Joan. Be generous—yield up this matter, and let 
us speak rather of the towns on the Somme.” 

“My council will talk to your Majesty of these,” said 
Charles, “I myself have less at heart the acquisition of terri- ® 
tory than the redress of injuries. You have tampered with 
my vassals, and your royal pleasure must needs dispose of the 

1 Grand Seignior. The Sultan. 

and arri^re ban. The entire feudal force; ban, a call to the banner or 
standard: arriere-ban, the summons to the reserves, the call of the entire force at 
command. 







509 


Quentin Durward 

hand of a ward of Burgundy. Your Majesty must bestow it 
within the pale of your own royal family, since you have 
meddled with it; otherwise, our conference breaks off.” 

“Were I to say I did this willingly,” said the King, “no one 
would believe me; therefore do you, my fair cousin, judge of 
the extent of my wish to oblige you when I say, most reluc¬ 
tantly, that the parties consenting, and a dispensation from the 
Pope being obtained, my own objections shall be no bar to this 
match which you propose.” 

“All besides can be easily settled by our ministers,” said 
the Duke, “and we are once more cousins and friends.” 

“May Heaven be praised!” said Louis, “who, holding in 
His hand the hearts of princes, doth mercifully incline them to 
peace and clemency, and prevent the effusion of human blood. 
Oliver,” he added apart to that favourite, who ever waited 
around him like the familiar^ beside a sorcerer, “hark thee— 
tell Tristan to be speedy in dealing with yonder runagate 
Bohemian.” 

iThe familiar. Latin familiaris, an intimate; the familiar spirit, or devil, 
supposed to attend on those who practiced the Black Art. 







CHAPTER XXXIV. 


THE EXECUTION 

I’ll take thee to the good green wood, 

And make thine own hand choose the tree. 

Old Ballad. 

“Now God be praised that gave us the power of laughing 
and making others laugh, and shame to the dull cur who 
scorns the office of a jester! Here is a joke, and that none of 
the brightest, though it may pass, since it has amused two 
princes, which hath gone farther than a thousand reasons of 
state to prevent a war between France and Burgundy.” 

Such was the inference of Le Glorieux when, in conse¬ 
quence of the reconciliation of which we gave the particulars 
in the last chapter, the Burgundian guards were withdrawn 
from the Castle of Peronne, the abode of the King removed 
from the ominous Tower of Count Herbert, and, to the great 
joy both of French and Burgundians, an outward show at 
least, of confidence and friendship seemed so established 
betw^een Duke Charles and his liege lord. Yet still the latter, 
though treated with ceremonial observance, was sufficiently 
aware that he continued to be the object of suspicion, though 
he prudently affected to overlook it, and appeared to consider 
himself as entirely at his ease. 

Meanwhile, as frequently happens in such cases, whilst 
the principal parties concerned had so far made up their dif¬ 
ferences, one of the subaltern agents concerned in their 
intrigues was bitterly experiencing the truth of the political 
maxim, that if the great have frequent need of base tools, they 
make amends to society by abandoning them to their fate so 
soon as they find them no longer useful. 

This was Hayraddin Maugrabin, who, surrendered by the 


510 



Quentin Durward 


511 


Duke’s officers to the King’s provost-marshal, was by him 
placed in- the hands of his two trusty aides-de-camp, Trois- 
Escllelles and Petit-Andre, to be despatched without loss of 
time. One on either side of him, and follow^ed by a few 
guards and a multitude of rabble—this playing the allegro, 
that the penseroso ^—he was marched off (to use a modern 
comparison, like Garrick^ between Tragedy and Comedy) to 
the neighbouring forest; where, to save all further trouble 
and ceremonial of a gibbet and so forth, the disposers of his 
fate proposed to knit him up to the first sufficient tree. 

They were not long in finding an oak, as Petit-Andre 
facetiously expressed it, fit to bear such an acorn; and placing 
the wretched criminal on a bank, under a sufficient guard, 
they began their extemporaneous preparations for the final 
catastrophe. At that moment Hayraddin, gazing on the 
crowed, encountered the eyes of Quentin Durw^ard, who, 
thinking he recognized the countenance of his faithless guide 
in that of the detected impostor, had followed with the crowd 
to witness the execution,, and assure himself of the identity. 

When the executioners informed him that all was ready, 
Hayraddin, wdth much calmness, asked a single boon at their 
hands. 

“Anything, my son, consistent with our office,” said Trois- 
Eschelles. 

“That is,” said Hayraddin, “anything but my life.” 

“Even so,” said Trois-Eschelles, “and something more; 
for as you seem resolved to do credit to our mystery,^ and die 
like a man, without making wry mouths—why, though our 
orders are to be prompt, I care not if I indulge you ten 
minutes longer.” 

“You are even too generous,” said Hayraddin. 

“Truly we may be blamed for it,” said Petit-AndrG* “but 

I 

^Allegro. Penseroso. Mirthful, melancholy; compare the titles of Milton’s 
two poems, L*Allegro, II Penseroso. 

^Like Garrick. David Garrick (1717-79), the great English actor, whose range 
of parts included both tragedy and comedy. 

^Mystery. From the French mysUre, a trade or craft 



512 


Quentin Durward ; 

what of that? I could consent almost to give my life for such 
a jerry-come-tumble, such a smart, tight, firm lad, who pro¬ 
poses to come from aloft with a grace, as an honest fellow , 
should do.” - 

“So that if you want a confessor,” said Trois-Eschelles-- 

“Or a lire ^ of wine,” said his facetious companion- : 

“Or a psalm,” said Tragedy- 

“Or a song,” said Comedy- 

“Neither, my good, kind, and most expeditious friends,” 
said the Bohemian; “I only pray^to speak a few minutes with 
yonder archer of the Scottish Guard.” 

The executioners hesitated a moment; but Trois-Eschelles 
recollecting that Quentin Durward was believed, from vari¬ 
ous circumstances, to stand high in the favour of their master. 
King Louis, they resolved to permit the interview. 

When Quentin, at their summons, approached the con¬ 
demned criminal, he could not but be shocked at his appearance, 
however justly his doom might have been deserved. The 
remnants of his heraldic finery, rent to tatters by the fangs of 
the dogs, and the clutches of the bipeds who had rescued him 
from their fury to lead him to the gallows, gave him at once a 
ludicrous and a wretched appearance. His face was discol¬ 
oured with paint, and with some remnants of a fictitious 
beard, assumed for the purpose of disguise, and there was the 
paleness of death upon his cheek and upon his lip; yet, strong 
in passive courage, like most of his tribe, his eye, while it 
glistened and wandered, as well as the contorted smile of his 
mouth, seemed to bid defiance to the death he was about to die. 

Quentin was struck partly with horror, partly with com¬ 
passion, as he approached the miserable man, and these feelings 
probably betrayed themselves in his manner, for Petit-Andre 
called out, “Trip it more smartly, jolly archer; this gentle¬ 
man’s leisure cannot wait for you, if you walk as if the | 
pebbles were eggs, and you afraid of breaking them.” 

“I must speak with him in privacy,” said the criminal, 

^Lire. For litre; a little less than a quart. 







Quentin Durward . 5i $ 

despair seeming to croak in his accent as he uttered the words. 

“That may hardly consist with our office, my merry leap- 
the-ladder,” said Petit-Andre; “we know 3'ou for a slipper}^ 
eel of old.” 

“I am tied with j^our horse-girths, hand and foot,” said 
the criminal. “You may keep guard around me, though out 
of ear-shot; the archer is your own King’s servant. And if I 
give 30U ten guilders-” 

“Laid out in masses, the sum may profit his poor soul,” 
said Trois-Eschelles. 

“Laid out in wine or Brantwein, it will comfort my poor 
body,” responded Petit-Andre. “So let them be forthcoming, 
my little crack-rope.” 

“Pay the bloodhounds their fee,” said Hayraddin to Dur¬ 
ward; “I was plundered of every stiver when they took me; 
it shall avail thee much.” 

Quentin paid the executioners their guerdon, and, like 
men of promise, they retreated out of hearing—keeping, how¬ 
ever,, a careful eye on the criminal’s motions. After awaiting 
an instant till the unhappy man should speak, as he still 
remained silent, Quentin at length addressed him, “And to 
this conclusion thou hast at length arrived?” 

“Ay,” answered Hayraddin, “it required neither astrol¬ 
oger, nor physiognomist, nor chiromantist, to foretell that I 
should follow the destiny of my family.” 

“Brought to this early end by thy long course of crime and 
treachery!” said the Scot. 

“No, by the bright Aldebaran and all his brother 
twinklers!” answ^ered the Bohemian. “I am brought hither 
by my folly, in believing that the bloodthirsty cruelty of a 
Frank could be restrained even by what they themselves pro¬ 
fess to hold most sacred. A priest’s vestment would have 
been no safer garb for me than a herald’s tabard, however 
sanctimonious are your professions of devotion and chivalry.” 

“A detected impostor has no right to claim the immunities 
of the disguise he had usurped,” said Durward. 








514 


Quentin Durward 

“Detected!” said the Bohemian. “My jargon was as 
much to the purpose as yonder old fool of a herald’s; but let it 
pass. As well now as hereafter.” 

“You abuse time,” said Quentin. “If you have aught to , 
tell me, say it quickly, and then take some care of your soul.’' ! 

“Of my soul!” said the Bohemian, with a hideous laugh. 
“Think ye a leprosy of twenty years can be cured in an 
instant? If I have a soul, it hath been in such a course since 
I was ten years old and more, that it would take me one 
month to recall all my crimes, and another to tell them to the j 
priest; and were such space granted me, it is .five to one I | 
would employ it otherwise.” 

“Hardened wretch, blaspheme not! Tell me what thou 
hast to say, and I leave thee to thy fate,” said Durward, with 
mingled pity and horror. 

“I have a boon to ask,” said Hayraddin, “but first I will 
buy it of you; for your tribe, with all their professions of 
charity, give nought for nought.” 

“I could wellnigh say ‘Thy gifts perish with thee,’ ” 
answered Quentin, “but that thou art on the very verge of 
eternity. Ask thy boon; reserve thy bounty, it can do me no 
good. I remember enough of your good offices of old.” 

“Why, I loved you,” said Hayraddin, “for the matter that 
chanced on the banks of the Cher; and I would have helped 
you to a wealthy dame. You wore her scarf, which partly 
misled me; and indeed I thought that Hameline, with her 
portable wealth, was more for your market-penny than the 
other hen-sparrow,, wdth her old roost at Bracquemont, which | 
Charles has clutched, and is likely to keep his claws upon.” 

“Talk not so idly, unhappy man,” said Quentin; “yonder 
officers become impatient.” 

“Give them ten guilders for ten minutes more,” said the 
culprit, who,, lik^ most in his situation, mixed with his hardi- | 
hood a desire of procrastinating his fate; “I tell thee it shall 
avail thee much.” 





Quentin Durward 


515 




“Use then well the minutes so purchased,” said Durward, 
and easily made a new bargain with the marshals-men. 

This done, Hayraddin continued: “Yes, I assure you I 
meant you well; and Hameline would have proved an easy 
and convenient spouse. Why she has reconciled herself even 
with the Boar of Ardennes, though his mode of wooing was 
somewhat of the roughest, and lords it yonder in his sty, as if 
she had fed on'mast-husks and acorns all her life.” 

“Cease this brutal and untimely jesting,” said Quentin, 
“or, once more I tell you, I will leave you to your fate.” 

“You are right,” said Hayraddin, after a moment’s pause; 
“what cannot be postponed must be faced! Well, know then, 
I came hither in this accursed disguise, moved by a great 
reward from De la Marck, and hoping a yet mightier one 
from King Louis, not merely to bear the message of defiance 
which 3'ou may have heard of, but to tell the King an important 


secret.” 

“It was a fearful risk,” said Durward. 

“It was paid for as such, and such it hath proved,” 
answered the Bohemian. “De la Marck attempted before to 
communicate with Louis by means of Marthon; but she could 
not, it seems, approach nearer to him than the astrologer, to 
I whom she told all the passages of the journey, and of Schon- 
I waldt; but it is a chance if her tidings ever reach Louis, 

: except in the shape of a prophecy. But hear my secret, which 
is more important than aught she could tell. William de la 
Marck has assembled a numerous and strong force within the 
city of Liege, and augments it daily by means of the old 
priest’s treasures. But he proposes not to hazard a battle with 
the chivalry of Burgundy, and still less to stand a siege in the 
dismantled town. This he will do: he will suffer the hot- 
brained Charles to sit down before the place without opposi¬ 
tion,, and in the night, make an outfall or sally upon the 
leaguer with his whole force. Many he will have in French 
armour, who will cry ‘France,’ ‘St. Louis,’ and ‘Denis Mont- 
joye,’ as if there were a strong body of French auxiliaries in 





516 


Quentin Durward 

the city. This cannot choose but strike utter confusion among 
the Burgundians'; and if King Louis, with his guards, attend¬ 
ants, and such soldiers as he may have with him, shall second 
his efforts, the Boar of Ardennes nothing doubts the discom¬ 
fiture of the whole Burgundian army. There is my secret, 
and I bequeath it to you. Forward, or prevent the enterprise— 
sell the intelligence to King Louis or to Duke Charles, I care j 
not. Save or destroy whom thou wilt; for my part, I only 
grieve that I cannot spring it like a mine, to the destruction ! 
of them all j 

“It is indeed an important secret,” said Quentin, instantly’’ 
comprehending how easily the national jealousy might be 
awakened in a camp consisting partly of French, partly of 
Burgundians. 

“Ay, so it is,” answered Hayraddin; “and, now you have 
it, you would fain begone, and leave me withbut granting the 
boon for which I have paid beforehand.” 

“Tell me thy request,” said Quentin; “I will grant it if it 
be in my power.” 

“Nay, it is no mighty demand: it is only in behalf of poor 
Klepper, my palfrey, the only living thing that may miss me. 
A due mile south you will find him feeding by a deserted 
collier’s hut; whistle to him thus,” (he whistled a peculiar 
note,) “and call him by his name, Klepper, he will come to I 
you; here is his bridle under my gaberdine—it is lucky the 
hounds got it not, for he obeys no other. Take him, and make 
much of him, I do not say for his master’s sake, but because I 
have placed at your disposal the event of a mighty war. He ! 
will never fail you at need; night and day, rough and smooth, 
fair and foul, warm stables and the winter sky., are the same 
to Klepper; had I cleared the gates of Peronne, and got so far 
as where I left him, I had not been in this case. Will you be 
kind to Klepper?” 

“I swear to you that I will,” answered Quentin, affected 
by what seemed a trait of tenderness in a character so 
hardened. 





517 


Quentin Durward 

“Then fare thee well!” said the criminal. “Yet stay- 
stay ; I would not willingly die in discourtesy, forgetting a 
lady’s commission. This billet is from the very gracious and 
extremely silly Lady of the Wild Boar of Ardennes to her 
black-eyed niece—I see by your look I have chosen a willing 
messenger. And one word more—I forgot to say, that in the 
stuffing of my saddle you will find a rich purse of gold pieces, 
for the sake of which I put my life on the venture which has 
cost me so dear. Take them, and replace a hundredfold the 
guilders you have bestowed on these bloody slaves. I make 
you mine heir.” 

“I will bestow them in good works, and masses for the 
benefit of thy soul,” said Quentin. 

“Name not that word again,” said Hayraddin, his counte¬ 
nance assuming a dreadful expression; “there is—there can 
be—there shall be—no such thing! it is a dream of priest¬ 
craft!” / 

“Unhappy—most unhappy being! Think better! Let me 
speed for a priest; these men will delay yet a little longer, I 
will bribe them to it,” said Quentin. “What canst thou 
expect, dying in such opinions, and impenitent?” 

“To be resolved into the elements,” said the hardened 
atheist, pressing his fettered arms against his bosom; “my 
hope, trust, and expectation is, that the mysterious frame of 
humanity shall melt into the general mass of nature, to be 
recompounded in the other forms with which she daily supplies 
those which daily disappear, and return under different 
forms—the watery particles to streams and showers, the 
earthly parts to enrich their mother earth, and the airy por¬ 
tions to wanton in the breeze, and those of fire to supply the 
blaze of Aldebaran and his brethren. In this faith have I 
lived, and I will die in it! Hence! begone! disturb me no 
farther! I have spoken the last word that mortal ears shall 
listen to!” 

Deeply impressed with the horrors of his condition, Quen¬ 
tin Durward yet saw that it was vain to hope to awaken him 


518 Quentin Durward 

to a sense of his fearful state. He bid him therefore, farewell; 
to which the criminal only replied by a short and sullen nod, 
as one who, plunged in reverie, bids adieu to company which 
distracts his thoirghts. He bent his course towards the forest, 
and easily found where Klepper was feeding. The creature 
came at his call, but was for some time unwilling to be caught, 
snuffing and starting when the stranger approached him. At 
length, however, Quentin’s general acquaintance with the 
habits of the animal, and perhaps some particular knowledge 
of those of Klepper, which he had often admired while Hay- 
raddin and he travelled together, enabled him to take posses¬ 
sion of the Bohemian’s dying bequest. Long ere he returned 
to Peronne, the Bohemian had gone where the vanity of his 
dreadful creed was to be put to the final issue—a fearful 
experience from one who had neither expressed remorse for the 
past nor apprehension for the future! 




CHAPTER XXXV. 


A PRIZE FOR HONOUR 

’Tis brave for beauty when the best blade wins her. 

The Count Palatine. 

When Quentin Durward reached Peronne, a council was 
sitting, in the issue of which he was interested more deeply 
than he could have apprehended, and which, though held by 
persons of a rank with whom one of his could scarce be sup¬ 
posed to have a community of interest, had nevertheless the 
most extraordinary influence on his fortunes. 

King Louis, who, after the interlude of De la Marck s 
envoy, had omitted no opportunity to cultivate the returning 
interest which that circumstance had given him in the Duke’s 
opinion, had been engaged in consulting him, or, it might be 
almost said, receiving his opinion, upon the number .and 
quality of the troops, by whom, as auxiliary to the Duke of 
Burgundy, he was to be attended in their joint expedition 
against Liege. He plainly saw the wish of Charles was to call 
into his camp such Frenchmen as,, from their small number 
and high quality, might be considered rather as hostages than 
as auxiliaries; but, observant of Crevecoeur’s advice, he 
assented as readily to whatever the Duke proposed as if it had 
arisen from the free impulse of his own mind. 

The King failed not, however, to indemnify himself for 
his complaisance by the indulgence of his vindictive temper 
against Balue, whose counsels had led hinri to repose such 
exuberant trust in the Duke of Burgundy. Tristan, who 
bore the summons for moving up his auxiliary forces, had the. 
farther commission to carry the cardinal to the Castle of 
Loches, and there shut him up in one of those iron cages 
which he himself is said to have invented. 


519 



520 Quentin Durward 

“Let him make proof of his own devices,” said the King; 
“he is a man of holy church—we may not shed his blood; but, 
Pasques-dieu! his bishopric, for ten years to come, shall have 
»in impregnable frontier to make up for its small extent! And 
nee the troops are brought up instantly.” 

Perhaps by this prompt acquiescence, Louis hoped to evade 
^he more unpleasing condition with which the Duke had 
dogged their reconciliation. But if he so hoped,, he greatly mis¬ 
took the temper of his cousin; for never man lived more 
tenacious of his purpose than Charles of Burgundy, and least 
of all was he willing to relax any stipulation which he had 
tnade in resentment or revenge,, of a supposed injury. 

No sooner were the necessary expresses despatched to sum- 
Inon up the forces who were selected to act as auxiliaries than 
Louis was called upon by his host to give public consent to the 
Espousals of the Duke of Orleans and Isabelle of Croye. The 
Icing complied with a heavy sigh, and presently after urged a 
dight expostulation, founded upon the necessity of observing 
Ihe wishes of the duke himself. 

“These have not been neglected,” said the Duke of Bur¬ 
gundy: “Crevecoeur hath communicated with Monsieur 
d’Orleans, and finds him—strange to say, so dead to the 
honour of wedding a royal bride, that he acceded to the pro¬ 
posal of marrying the' Countess of Croye, as the kindest 
proposal which father could have made to him.” 

“He is the more ungracious and thankless,” said Louis; 
“but the whole shall be as you, my cousin, will, if you can 
bring it about with consent of the parties themselves.” 

“Fear not that,” said the Duke; and accordingly, not 
many minutes after the affair had been proposed, the Duke of 
Orleans and the Countess of Croye,- the latter attended, as on 
the preceding occasion by the Countess of Crevecoeur and the 
abbess of the Ursulines, were summoned to the presence of 
the princes, and heard from the mouth of Charles of Bur¬ 
gundy, unobjected to by that of Louis, who sat in silent and 
moody consciousness of diminished consequence, that the 




Quentin Durward 


521 


union of their hands was designed by the wisdom of both 
princes, to confirm the perpetual alliance which in future 
should take place betwixt France and Burgundy. 

The Duke of Orleans had much difficulty in suppressing 
the joy which he felt upon the proposal, and which delicacy 
rendered improper in the presence of Louis; and it required 
his habitual awe of that monarch to enable him to rein in his 
delight, so much as merely to reply, “that his duty compelled 
him to place his choice at the disposal of his sovereign.” 

“Fair cousin of Orleans,” said Louis, with sullen gravity, 
“since I must speak on so unpleasant an occasion, it is needless 
for me to remind you that my sense of your merits had led me 
to propose for you a match into my own family. But, since 
my cousin of Burgundy thinks that the disposing of your hand 
otherwise is the surest pledge of amity between his dominions 
and mine, I love both too well not to Sacrifice to them my own 
hopes and wishes.” 

The Duke of Orleans threw himself on his knees, and 
kissed,—and, for once, with sincerity of attachment,—the 
hand which the King with averted countenance, extended to 
him. In fact he, as well as most present, sawq in the unwill¬ 
ing acquiescence of this accomplished dissembler, who, even 
with that very purpose, had suffered his reluctance to be 
visible, a king relinquishing his favourite project, and sub¬ 
jugating his paternal feelings to the necessities of state and 
interest of his country. Even Burgundy was moved, and 
Orleans’ heart smote him for the joy which he involuntarily 
felt on being freed from his engagement with the Princess 
Joan. If he had known how deeply the King waus cursing him 
in his soul, and what thoughts of future revenge he was 
agitating, it is probable his own delicacy on the occasion would 
not have been so much hurt. 

Charles next turned to the 5'oung countess, and bluntly 
announced the proposed match to her, as a matter which 
neither admitted delay nor hesitation; adding, at the same 


(JUENTIN DURWARD 


time, that it was but a too favourable consequence of her 
intractability on a former occasion. 

“My Lord Duke and Sovereign,” said Isabelle, summon¬ 
ing up all her courage, “I observe your Grace’s commands, 
and submit to them.” 

“‘Enough, enough,” said the Duke, interrupting her, “we 
will arrange the rest. Your Majesty,” he continued, address¬ 
ing King Louis, “hath had a boar’s hunt in the morning; 
what say 3011 to rousing a wolf in the afternoon?” 

Hie young countess saw the necessity of decision. “Your . 
Grace mistakes my meaning,” she said, speaking, though 
timidly, yet loudly and decidedly enough to compel the Duke’s 
attention, which, from some consciousness, he would otherwise 
have willingly denied to her. “My submission,” she said, 
“only respected those lands and estates which your Grace’s 
ancestors gave to mine, and which I resign to the house of 
Burgundy if my sovereign thinks my disobedience in this mat¬ 
ter renders me unworthy to hold them.” 

“Ha! St. George!” said the Duke, stamping furiously on 
the ground, “does the fool know in what presence she is, and 
to whom she speaks?” 

“IVIy lord,” she replied, still undismayed, “I am before my j 
suzerain, and, I trust, a just one. If you deprive me of my 
lands, you take away all that 3'our ancestors’ generosity gave, 
and you break the only bonds which attach us together. You 
gave not this poor and persecuted form, still less the spirit 
which animates me. And these it is my purpose to dedicate to 
Heaven in the convent of the Ursulines, under the guidance 
of this holy mother abbess.” 

The rage and astonishment of the Duke can hardly be (; 
conceived, unless we could estimate the surprise of a falcon 
against whom a dove should ruffle its pinions in defiance. 
“Will the holy mother receive you without an appanage?” he 
said, in a voice of scorn. 

“If she doth her convent, in the first instance, so much 
wrong,” said the Lady Isabelle, “I trust there is charity 




523 


Quentin Durward 

enough among the noble friends of my house to make up some 
support for the orphan of Croye.” 

“It is false!” said the Duke; “it is a base pretext to cover 
some secret and unworthy passion. My Lord of Orleans, she 
shall be yours, if 1 drag her to the altar with my own hands ! 

The Countess of Crevecoeur, a high-spirited woman, and 
confident in her husband’s merits and his favour with the 
Duke, could keep silent no longer. “My lord,” she said, your 
passions transport you into language utterly unworthy. The 
hand of no gentlewoman can be disposed of by force.” 

“And it is no part of the duty of a Christian prince,” 
added the abbess, “to thwart the wishes of a pious soul, who, 
broken with the cares and persecutions of the world, is desir¬ 
ous to become the bride of Heaven.” 

“Neither can my cousin of Orleans,” said Dunois, “with 
honour accept a proposal to which the lady has thus publicly 
stated her objections.” 

“If I were permitted,” said Orleans, on whose facile mind 
Isabelle’s beauty had made a deep impression, “some time to 
endeavour to place my pretensions before the countess in a 
more favourable light-” 

“My lord,” said Isabelle, whose firmness was now fully 
supported by the encouragement which she received from all 
around, “it were to no purpose: my mind is made up to 
decline this alliance, though far above my deserts.” 

“Nor have I tiiiie,” said the Duke, “to wait till these 
whimsies are changed with the next change of^ the moon. 
Monseigneur d’Orleans, she shall learn within this hour that 
obedience becomes matter of necessity.” 

“Not in my behalf, sire,” answered the prince, who felt 
that he could not, with any show of honour, avail himself of 
the Duke’s obstinate disposition; “to have been once openly 
and positively refused is enough ^or a son of France. He 
cannot prosecute his addresses farther. 

The Duke darted one furious glance at Orleans, another 
at Louis; and reading in .the countenance of the latter,, in 





524 


Quextin Durward 

spite of his utmost efforts to suppress his feelings, a look of 
secret triumph, he became outrageous. 

“Write,” he said to his secretary, “our doom of forfeiture 
and imprisonment against this disobedient and insolent minion. 
She shall to the zuchthaus} to the penitentiary, to herd with 
those whose lives have rendered them her rivals in effrontery!” 

There was a general murmur. 

“^ly Lord Duke,” said the Count of Crevecoeur, taking 
the word for the rest, “this must be better thought on. We, 
your faithful vassals, cannot suffer such a dishonour to the 
nobility and chivalry of Burgundy. If the countess hath done 
amiss, let her be punished, but in the manner that becomes her 
rank and ours, who stand connected with-her house by blood 
and alliance.” 

The Duke paused a moment, and looked full at his coun¬ 
sellor with the stare of a bull which, when compelled by the 
neat-herd “ from the road which he wishes to go, deliberates 
with himself whether to obey or to rush on his driver and toss 
him into the air. 

Prudence, however, prevailed over fury; he saw the senti¬ 
ment was general in his council; was afraid of the advantages 
which Louis might derive from seeing dissension among his 
vassals; and probabl}^, for he was rather of a coarse and 
violent than of a malignant temper, felt ashamed of his own 
dishonourable proposal. 

“You are right,” he said, “Crevecoeur, and I spoke hastily. 
Her fate shall be determined according to the rules of chivalry. 
Her flight to Liege hath given the sigrud for the bishop’s 
murder. He that best avenges that deed, and brings us the 
head of the Wild Boar of Ardennes, shall claim her hand of 
us; and if she denies his right, we can at least grant him her 
fiefs, leaving it to his generosity to allow her what means he 
will to retire into a convent.” 


^Zuchthaus. Prison. 
^Neat-herd. Cattle herdsman. 




525 


Quentin Durward 

“Nay!” said the countess, “think I am the daughter of 
Count Reinold—of your father’s old, valiant, and faithful 
servant. Would you hold me out as a prize to the best 
sword-player?” 

“Your ancestress,” said the Duke, “was won at a tourney; 
you shall be fought for in real mHee. Only thus far, for 
Count Reinold’s sake, the successful prizer shall be a gentle¬ 
man, of unimpeached birth and unstained bearings; but, be he 
such, and the poorest who ever drew the strap of a sword-belt 
through the tongue of a buckle, he shall have at least the 
proffer of your hand. I swear it, by St. George, by my ducal 
crown, and by the order that I wear! Ha! messires,” he 
added, turning to the nobles present, “this at least is, I think, 
in conformity with the rules of chivalry?” 

, Isabelle’s remonstrances were drov/ned in a general and 
jubilant assent, above which was heard the voice of old Lord 
Crawford, regretting the weight of years that prevented his 
striking for so fair a prize. The Duke was gratified by the 
general applause, and his temper began to flow more smoothly, 
like that of a swollen river when it hath subsided within its 
natural boundaries. 

“Are we, to whom fate has given dames already,” said 
Crevecceur, “to be bystanders at this fair game? It does not 
consist with my honour to be so, for I have myself a vow to be 
paid at the expense of that tusked and bristled brute, De la 
Marck.” 

“Strike boldly in, Crevecceur,” said the Duke; “win her, 
and since thou canst not wear her thyself, bestow her where 
thou wilt—on Count Stephen, your nephew, if you list.” 

“Gramercy,^ my lord!” said Crevecceur, “I will do my 
best in the battle; and, should I be fortunate enough to be 
foremost,, Stephen shall try his eloquence against that of the 
lady abbess.” 

iGramercy. Corruption of the French grand nterci, great thanks. 




526 


Quentin Durward 


“I trust,” said Dunois, “that the chivalr)’ of France are 
not excluded from this fair contest?” 

“Heaven forbid! brave Dunois,” answered the Duke, 
“were it but for the sake of seeing you do your uttermost. 
But,” he added, “though there be no fault in the Lady Isa¬ 
belle wedding a Frenchman, it will be necessary that the 
Count of Croye must become a subject of Burgundy.” 

“Enough, enough,” said Dunois, “my bar sinister^ may 
never be surmounted by the coronet of Croye: I will live and 
die French. But yet, though I should lose the lands, I will 
strike a blow for the lady.” 

Le Balafre dared not speak aloud in such a presence, but 
he muttered to himself—“Now, Saunders Souplejaw, hold 
thine own! Thou always saidst the fortune of our house was 
to be won by marriage, and never had you such a chance to 
keep your word with us.” 

“No one thinks of me,” said Le Glorieux, “who am sure 
to carry off the prize from all of you.” 

“Right, my sapient friend,” said Louis; “when a woman 
is in the case, the greatest fool is ever the first in favour.” 

While the princes and their nobles thus jested over her 
fate, the abbess and the Countess of Crevecoeur endeavoured 
in vain to console Jsabelle,. who had withdrawn with them 
from the council-presence. The former assured her, that the 
Holy Virgin would frown on every attempt to withdraw a 
true votaress from the shrine of St. Ursula," while the 
Countess of Crevecoeur whispered more temporal consolation, 
that no true knight, who might succeed in the emprize^ pro¬ 
posed, would avail himself, against her inclinations, of the 
Duke’s award; and that perhaps the successful competitor 


^ Bar sinister. A mark of illegitimate birth, denoted by a bar on the left hand 
A the escutcheon; Latin sinister, on the left hand. Dunois, sumamed 
Bastard ot Orleans, was the natural son of Louis, Duke of Orleans. 

^St. Ursula. There is a tradition that Ursula, the daughter of a British King 
while on a pilgrimage with her 11,000 maidens, was slain with her companions by 
Huns near Cologne. hat are said to be the bones of these murdered virgins 
are preserved in the Church of St. Ursula at Cologne. * 

»Em prize. ' See Note 34 —Prize of Honour. 



527 


Quentin Durward 

might prove one 'who should find such favour in her eyes as to 
^ reconcile her to obedience. Love, like despair, catches at 
straws; and, faint and vague as was the hope which this 
insinuation conveyed, the tears of the Countess Isabelle downed 
more placidly while she dwelt upon it. 




CHAPTER XXXVL 


THE SALLY 


The wretch condemn’d with life to part 
Still, still on hope relies, 

And every pang that rends the heart 
Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper’s light, 

Adorns and cheers the way. 

And still the darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

Goldsmith. 


Few da^^s had passed ere Louis had received, with a smile 
of gratified vengeance, the intelligence that his favourite and 
his counsellor, the Cardinal Balue, was groaning within a 
cage of iron., so disposed as scarce to permit him to enjoy 
repose in any posture except when recumbent, and of which, 
he it said in passing, he remained the unpitied tenant for 
nearly twelve years. The auxiliary forces which the Duke had 
required Louis to bring up had also appeared; and he com¬ 
forted himself that their numbers were sufficient to protect his 
person against violence, although too limited to cope, had such 
been his purpose, with the large army of Burgund)^ He saw 
himself also at liberty, when time should suit, to resume his 
project of marriage between his daughter and the Duke of 
Orleans; and, although he was sensible to the indignity of 
serving with his noblest peers under the banners of his own 
vassal, and against the people whose cause he had abetted, he 
did not allow these circumstances to embarrass him in the 
meantime, trusting that a future day would bring him amends. 
“For chance,” said he to his trusty Oliver, “may indeed gain 
one hit, but it is patience and wisdom which win the game at 
last.” 


.S28 





Quentin Durward 


529 


With such sentiments, upon a beautiful day in the latter 
end of harvest, the King mounted his horse; and indifferent 
that he was looked upon rather as a part of the pageant of a 
victor than in the light of an independent sovereign sur¬ 
rounded by his guards and his chivalry. King Louis sallied 
from under the Gothic gateway of Peronne to join the Bur¬ 
gundian army, which commenced at the same time its march 
against Liege. 

Most of the ladies of distinction who were in the place 
attended., dressed in their best array, upon the battlements and 
defences of the gate to see the gallant show of the warriors 
setting forth on the expedition. Thither had the Countess 
Crevecoeur brought the Countess Isabelle. The latter attended 
very reluctantly; but the peremptory order of Charles had 
been, that she who was to bestow the palm in the tourney, 
should be visible to the knights who were about to enter the 
lists. 

As they thronged out from under the arch, many a pennon 
and shield was to be seen, graced with fresh devices, expressive 
of the bearer’s devoted resolution to become a competitor for a 
prize so fair. Here a charger was painted starting for the 
goal, there an arrow aimed at a mark; one knight bore a 
bleeding heart, indicative of his passion, another a skull and a 
coronet of laurels, showing his determination to win or die. 
Many others there were; and some so cunningly intricate and 
obscure, that they might have defied the most ingenious inter¬ 
preter. Each knight, too, it may be presumed, put his 
courser to his mettle, and assumed his most gallant seat in the 
saddle as he passed for a moment under the view of the fair 
bevy of dames and damsels, who encouraged their valour by 
their smiles, and the waving of kerchiefs and of veils. The 
Archer Guard, selected almost at will from the flower of the 
Scottish nation, drew general applause, from the gallantry 
and splendour of their appearance. 

And there was one among these strangers who ventured 
on a demonstration of acquaintance with the Lady Isabelle 



530 


Quentin Durward 

which had not been attempted even by the most noble of the 
French nobility. It was Quentin Durward, who, as he passed 
the ladies in his rank, presented to the Countess of Croye, on 
the point of his lance, the letter of her aunt. 

“Now, by my honour,” said the Count of Crevec(Eur, 
“that is over insolent in an unworthy adventurer!” 

“Do not call him so, Crevecoeur,” said Dunois; “I have 
j^ood reason to bear testimony to his gallantry, and in behalf 
of that lady, too.” 

“You make words of nothing,” said Isabelle, blushing 
with shame and partly with resentment; “it is a letter from 
my unfortunate aunt: she writes cheerfully, though her situa¬ 
tion must be dreadful.” 

“Let us hear—let us hear what says the Boar’s bride,” said 
Crevecoeur. 

The Countess Isabelle read the letter, in which her aunt 
seemed determined to make the best of a bad bargain, and to 
console herself for the haste and indecorum of her nuptials by 
the happiness of being wedded to one of the bravest men of 
the age, who had just acquired a princedom by his valour. 
She implored her niece not to judge of her William,, as she 
called him, by the report of others, but to wait till she knew 
him personally. He had his fa;ults, perhaps, but they were 
such as belonged to characters whom she had ever venerated. 
William was rather addicted to wine, but so was the gallant 
Sir Godfrey, her grandsire; he was something hasty and 
sanguinary in his temper, such had been her brother, Reinold 
of blessed memory; he was blunt in speech, few Germans 
were otherwise; and a little wilful and peremptory, but she 
believed all men loved to rule. More there was to the same 
purpose; and the whole concluded with the hope and request 
that Isabelle would, by means of the bearer., endeavour her 
escape from the tyrant of Burgundy, and come to her loving 
kinswoman’s court of Liege, where any little differences con¬ 
cerning their mutual rights of succession to the earldom might 
be adjusted by Isabelle’s marrying Carl Eberson—a bride- 




Quentin Durward 


531 


groom younger indeed than his bride/ but that, as she (the 
Lady Hameline) might perhaps say from experience, was an 
inequality more easy to be endured than Isabelle could be 
aware of. 

Here the Countess Isabelle stopped; the abbess observing, 
with a prim aspect, that she had read quite enough concerning 
such worldly vanities, and the Count of Crevecceur breaking 
out, “Aroint“ thee, deceitful witch! Why, this device smells 
rank as the toasted cheese in a rat-trap. Now fie, and double 
fie, upon the old decoy-duck!” 

The Countess of Crevecceur gravely rebuked her husband 
for his violence. “The Lady Hameline,” she said, “must have 
been deceived by De la Marck with a show of courtesy.” 

“He show courtesy!” said the count; “I acquit him of all 
such dissimulation. You may as well expect courtesy from a 
literal wild boar; j^ou may as well try to lay leaf-gold on old 
rusty gibbet-irons. No—idiot as she is, she is not quite goose 
enough to fall in love with the fox who has snapped her, and 
that in his very den. But you women are all alike—fair 
words carry it; and, I dare say, here _ is my pretty cousin 
impatient to join her aunt in this fool’s paradise, and marry 
the Boar.Pig.” 

“So far from being capable of such folly,” said Isabelle, 
“I am double desirous of vengeance on the murderers of the 
excellent bishop, because it will, at the same time, free my aunt 
from the villain’s power.” 

“Ah! there indeed spoke the voice of Croye!” exclaimed 
the count; and no more was said concerning the letter. 

But while Isabelle read her aunt’s epistle to her friends, it 
must be observed that she did not think it necessary to recite 
a certain postscript, in which the Countess Hameline, lady¬ 
like,, gave an account of her occupations', and informed her 

^His bride. It is almost unnecessary to add that the marriage of William 
de la Marck with the Lady JTameline is as apocryphal as the lady herself. The 
real br<'W<» wild Boar of Ardennes was Joan D’Arschel, Baroness of Schoon- 

bov?n- 

‘^rvvnt. Avaunt, oegonev 




532 


Quentin Durward 

niece that she had laid aside for the present a surcoat which 
she was working for her husband, bearing the arms of Croye i 
and La Marck in conjugal fashion, parted per pale,^ because i 
her William had determined for purposes of policy, in the first i 
action to have others dressed in his coat-armour, and himself i 
to assume the arms of Orleans, with a bar sinister—in other ; 
words, those of Dunois. There was also a slip of paper in 
another hand, the contents of which the countess did not think 
it necessary to mention, being simply these words: “If you 
hear not of me soon, and that by the trumpet of Fame, con- i 
elude me dead, but not unw'orthy.” 

A thought, hitherto repelled as wildly incredible, now 
glanced with double keenness through Isabelle’s soul. As 
female wit seldom fails in the contrivance of means, she so 
ordered it, that ere the troops were fully on march, Quentin 
Durward received from an unknown hand the billet of Lady 
Hameline, marked with three crosses opposite to the post¬ 
script, and having these words subjoined: “He who feared 
not the arms of Orleans when on the breast of their gallant 
owner cannot dread them when displayed on that of a tyrant ; 
and murderer.” A thousand thousand times was this intima¬ 
tion kissed and pressed to the bosom of the young Scotlifor it | 
marshalled him on the path where both honour and love held ! 
out the reward, and possessed him with a secret unknown to 
others, by which to distinguish him whose death could alone 
give life to his hopes, and which he prudently resolved to lock ' 
up in his own bosom. 

But Durward saw the necessity of acting otherwise respect¬ 
ing the information communicated by Hayraddin, since the 
proposed sally of De la Marck, unless heedfully guarded 
against, might prove the destruction of the besieging army; 
so difficult was it, in the tumultuous warfare of those days, to 
recover from a nocturnal surprise. After pondering on the 
matter, he formed the additional resolution, that he would not 
communicate the intelligence save personally, and to both the 

^Parted per pale. Divided vertically. 




533 


Quentin Durward 

princes while together; perhaps because he felt that, to men¬ 
tion so well-contrived and hopeful a scheme to Louis whilst in 
private might be too strong a temptation to the wavering 
probit)^ of that monarch, and lead him to assist rather than 
repel the intended sally. He determined, therefore, to watch 
for an opportunity of revealing the secret whilst Louis and 
Charles were met, which, as they were not particularly fond 
of the constraint imposed by each other’s society, was not 
likely soon to occur. 

Meanwhile the march continued, and the confederates 
soon entered the territories of Liegel Here the Burgundian 
soldiers, at least a part of them, composed of those bands who 
had acquired the title of ecorcheurs, or flayers, showed by the 
usage which they gave the inhabitants, under pretext of aveng¬ 
ing the bishop’s death, that they well deserved that honourable 
title; while their conduct greatly prejudiced the cause of 
Charles—the aggrieved inhabitants, who might otherwise have 
been passive in the quarrel, assuming arms in self-defence, 
harassing his march., by cutting off small parties, and falling 
back before the main body upon the city itself, thus augment¬ 
ing the numbers and desperation of those who had resolved to 
defend it. The French, few in number, and those the choice 
soldiers of the country, kept, according to the King’s orders, 
close by their respective standards, and observed the strictest 
discipline; a contrast which increased the suspicions of 
Charles, who could not help remarking that the troops of 
Louis demeaned themselves as if they were rather friends to 
the Liegeois than allies of Burgundy. 

At length, without experiencing any serious opposition,, the 
army arrived in the rich valley of the Maes, and before the 
large and populous city of Liege. The Castle of Schonwaldt 
they found had been totally destroyed, and learned that Wil¬ 
liam de la Marck, whose only talents were of a military cast, 
had withdrawn his whole forces into the city, and was deter¬ 
mined to avoid the encounter of the chivalry of France and 
Burgundy in the open field. But the invaders were not long 



534 


Quentin Durward 

of experiencing the danger which must always exist in attack¬ 
ing a large town, however open, if the inhabitants are disposed 
to defend it desperately. 

A part of the Burgundian vanguard, conceiving that, from 
the dismantled and breached state of the walls, they had 
nothing to do but to march into Liege at their ease, entered 
one of the suburbs with the shouts of “Burgundy—Burgundy! 
Kill—kill! All is ours! Remember Louis of Bourbon!” But 
as they marched in disorder through the narrow streets, and 
were partly dispersed for the purpose of pillage, a large body 
of the inhabitants issued suddenly from the town, fell furi¬ 
ously upon them, and made considerable slaughter. De la 
Marck even availed himself of the breaches in the walls, which 
permitted the defenders to issue out at different points, and by 
taking separate routes into the contested suburb, to attack, in 
the front, flank, and rear, at once, the assailants, who, stunned 
by the furious, unexpected, and multiplied nature of the 
resistance offered, could hardly stand to their arms. The 
evening which began to close, added to their confusion. 

When this news was brought to Duke Charles, he was 
furious with rage, which was not much appeased by the offer 
of King Louis, to send the French men-at-arms into the 
suburb, to rescue and bring off the Burgundian vanguard. 
Rejecting this offer briefl}-, he would have put himself at the 
head of his own guards, to extricate those engaged in the 
incautious advance; but D’Hymbercourt and Crevecoeur 
entreated him to leave the service to them, and marching into 
the scene of action at two points, with more order and proper 
arrangement for mutual support, these two celebrated captains 
succeeded in repulsing the Liegeois and in extricating the van¬ 
guard, who lost, besides prisoners, no fewer than eight hundred 
men, of whom about a hundred were men-at-arms. The 
prisoners, however, were not numerous, most of. them having 
been rescued by D’Hymbercourt, who now proceeded to 
occupy the contested suburb, and to place guards opposite to 
the town, from which it was divided by an open space or 



535 


Quentin Durward 

esplanade of five or six hundred ^ards, left free of buildings 
for the purposes of defence. There was no moat betwixt the 
suburb and town, the ground being rocky in that place. A 
gate fronted the suburb, from which sallies might be easily 
made,'and the wall was pierced by two.or three of those 
breaches which Duke Charles had caused to be made after the 
battle of St. Tron, and which had been hastily repaired with 
mere barricades of timber. D’Hymbercourt turned two cul- 
verins^ on the gate, and placed two others opposite to the 
principal breach, to repel any sally from the city, and then 
returned to the Burgundian army, which he found in great 
disorder. 

In fact, the main body and rear of the numerous army of 
the Duke had continued to advance while the broken and 
repulsed vanguard was in the act of retreating; and they had 
come into collision with each other, to the great confusion of 
both. The necessary absence of D’Hymbercourt, who dis¬ 
charged all the duties of niarechal du camp, or, as we should 
now say, of quartermaster-general, augmented the disorder; 
and to complete the whole, the night sunk down dark as a 
wolf’s mouth: there fell a thick and heavy rain, and the ground 
on which the beleaguering army must needs take up their 
position was muddy and intersected with many canals. It is 
Ucarce possible to form an idea of the confusion which pre- 
; vailed in the Burgundian army, where leaders were separated 
from their soldiers and soldiers from their standards and 
officers. Every one, from the highest to the lowest, was seek¬ 
ing shelter and accommodation where he could individually 
find it; while the wearied and wounded, who had been 
engaged in the battle, were calling in vain for shelter and 
refreshment, and while those who knew nothing of the dis¬ 
aster were pressing on to have their share in the sack of the 
place, which they had no doubt was proceeding merrily. 

When D’Hymbercourt returned he had a task to perform 

iCulverins. Long slender guns able to carry balls to a great distance; through 
the French from the 'Latin'colubra, an adder, a serpent. 




536 Quentin Durward 

of incredible difficult)^, and embittered by the reproaches of 
his master, who made no allowance for the still more neces¬ 
sary duty in which he had been engaged, until the temper of 
the gallant soldier began to give w^ay under the Duke’s 
unreasonable reproaches. “I went hence to restore some order 
in the van,” he said, “and left the main body under your 
Grace’s own guidance; and now, on my return, I can neither 
find that we have front, flank, nor rear, so utter is the 
confusion.” 

“We are the more like a barrel of herrings,” answered 
Le Glorieux, “which is the most natural resemblance for a 
Flemish army.” 

The jester’s speech made the Duke laugh, and perhaps 
prevented a farther prosecution of the altercation betwixt him 
/and his general. 

By dint of great exertion, a small lusthaus} or country 
villa, of some w'ealthy citizen of Liege was secured and cleared 
of other occupants for the accommodation of the Duke and 
his immediate attendants; and the authority of D’Hymber- 
court and Crevecoeur at length established a guard in the 
vicinity, of about forty men-at-arms, who lighted a very large 
fire, made with the timber of the outhouses, which they pulled 
down for the purpose. 

A little to the left of this villa, and betwixt it and the 
suburb, which, as we have said, was opposite to the city gate, 
and occupied by the Burgundian vanguard, lay another 
pleasure-house, surrounded by a garden and courtyard, and 
having two or three small inclosures or fields in the rear of it. 
In this the King of France established his own headquarters. 
He did not himself pretend to be a soldier, further than a 
natural indifference to danger and much sagacity qualified 
him to be called such; but he was always careful to employ 
the most skilful in that profession, and reposed in them the 
confidence they merited. Louis and hi^ immediate attendants 
occupied this second villa; a part of his Scottish Guard were 

^Lusthaus. Pleasure-house. 



537 


Quentin Durward 

j placed in the court, where there were outhouses and sheds to 
shelter them from the weather; the rest were stationed in 
j' the garden. The remainder of the French men-at-arms were 
quartered closely together and in good order, with alarm-posts 
stationed, in case of their having to sustain an attack. 

Dunois and Crawford, assisted by several old officers and 
soldiers, amongst whom Le Balafre was conspicuous for his 
diligence, contrived, by breaking down walls, making openings 
through hedges, filling up ditches, and the like, to facilitate 
I the communication of the troops with each other, and the 
orderly combination of the whole in case of necessity. 

' Meanwhile, the King judged it proper to go without 
farther ceremony to the quarters of the Duke of Burgundy, to 
ascertain what was to be the order of proceeding and what 
cooperation was expected from him. His presence occasioned 
a sort of council of war to be held, of which Charles might 
not otherwise have dreamed. 

It was then that Quentin Durward prayed earnestly to be 
admitted, as having something of importance to deliver to the 
two princes. This was obtained without much difficulty, and 
great was the astonishment of Louis wffien he heard him calmly 
and distinctly relate the purpose of William de la Marck to 
make a sally upon the camp of the besiegers under the dress 
and banners of the French. Louis would probably have been 
much bHter pleased to have had such important news com¬ 
municated in private; but as the whole story had been publicly 
told in presence of the Duke of Burgundy, he only observed, 
“that, whether true or false, such a report concerned them 
most materially.” 

“Not a whit—not a whit!” said the Duke carelessly. 
“Had there been such a purpose as this young man announces, 
it had not been communicated to me by an archer of the Scot¬ 
tish Guard.” 

“However that may be,” answered Louis, “I pray you, 
fair cousin, you and your captains, to attend, that to prevent 
the unpleasing consequences of such an attack, should it be 







538 


Quentin Durward 

made unexpectedly, I will cause my soldiers to wear w’hite 
scarfs over their armour. Dunois, see it given out on the 
instant—that is.,” he added, “if our brother and general 
approves of it.” 

“I see no objection,” replied the Duke, “if the chivalry of 
France are willing to run the risk of having the name of 
Knights of the Smock-sleeve bestowed on them in future.” 

“It would be a right well adapted title, friend Charles,” 
said Le Glorieux, “considering that a woman is the reward 
of the most valiant.” 

“Well spoken, sagacity,” said Louis. “Cousin, good-night, 
I will go arm me. By the way, what if I win the countess 
with mine own hand ?” 

“Your Majesty,” said the Duke, in an altered tone of 
voice, “must then become a true Fleming.” 

“I cannot,” answered Louis,-in a tone of the most sincere 
confidence, “be more so than I am already, could I but bring 
you, my dear cousin., to believe it.” 

The Duke only replied by wishing the King good-night, in 
a tone resembling the snort of a shy horse, starting from the 
caress of the rider when he is about to mount, and is soothing 
him to stand still. 

“I could pardon all his duplicity,” said the Duke to Creve- 
cocur, “but cannot forgive him supposing me capable of the 
gross folly of being duped by his professions.” 

Louis, too, had his confidences with Oliver le Dain when 
he returned to his own quarters. “This Scot,” he said, “is 
such a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, that I know not 
what to make of him. Pasques-dieu! think'of his unpardon¬ 
able folly in bringing out honest De la iVIarck’s plan of a sally 
before the face of Burgundy, Crevecoeur, and all of them, 
instead of rounding it in my ear,^ and giving me at least the 
choice of abetting or defeating it!” 

“It is better as it is, sire,” said Oliver; “there are many in 


^Rounding it in my ear. Secretly imparting it to me alone. 





Quentin Durward 


539 


your^ present train who would scruple to assail Burgundy 
undefied, or to ally themselves with De la Marck.” 

“Thou art right., Oliver. Such fools there are in the 
world, and we have no time to reconcile their scruples by a 
little dose of self-interest. We must be true men, Oliver, and 
good allies of Burgundy, for this night at least; time may give 
us a chance of a better game. Go, tell no man to unarm him¬ 
self; and let them shoot, in case of necessity, as sharply on 
those who cry ‘France’ and ‘St. Denis’ as if they cried ‘Hell’ 
and ‘Satan.’ I will myself sleep in my armour. Let Craw¬ 
ford place Quentin Durward on the extreme point of our line 
of sentinels, next to the city. Let him e’en have the first 
benefit of the sally w^hich he has announced to us; if his luck 
bear him out, it is the better for him. But take an especial 
care of IVIartius Galeotti, and see he remain in the rear, in a 
place of the most absolute safety; he is even but too venturous, 
and, like a fool, would b'e both swordsman and philosopher. 
See to these things, Oliver, and good-night. Our Lady of 
Clery, and Monseigneur St. Martin of Tours, be gracious to 
my slumbers!” ^ 

iSee Note 35 —Attack upon Liege. 




CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE SALLY | 

He look’d, and saw what numbers numberless I 

The city-gates out-pour’d. ' j 

Paradise Regained, 

A DEAD silence soon reigned over that great host w^hich lay ' 
in leaguer before Liege. For a long time the cries of the 
soldiers repeating their signals,, and seeking to join their several 
banners, sounded like the howling of bewildered dogs seeking 
their masters. But at length, overcome with weariness by the 
fatigues of the day, the dispersed soldiers crowded under such 
shelter as they could meet with, and those who could find 
none sunk down through very fatigue under walls, hedges, 
and such temporary protection, there to wait for morning—a 
morning which some of them were never to behold. A dead 
sleep fell on almost all, excepting those who kept a faint and 
weary watch by the lodgings of the King and the Duke. The 
dangers and hopes of the morrow—even the schemes of glory ■ 
which many of the young nobility had founded upon the 
splendid prize held out to him who should avenge the mur¬ 
dered Bishop of Liege—glided from their recollection as they 
lay stupefied with fatigue and sleep. But not so with Quentin 
Durw^ard. The knowdedge that he alone w^as possessed of the 
means of distinguishing La Marck in the contest—the recol- | 
lection by wdiom that information had been communicated, and i 
the fair augury which might be drawm from her conveying it | 
to him—the thought that his fortune had brought him to a I 
most perilous and doubtful crisis indeed, but one where there I 
was still, at least, a chance of his coming off triumphant, j 
banished every desire to sleep, and strung his nerves wdth j 
vigour, which defied fatigue. j 


540 



541 


Quentin Durward 

Posted, b}' the King’s express order, on the extreme point 
between the French quarters and the town, a good way to the 
right of the suburb which we have mentioned, lie sharpened 
his eye to penetrate the mass which lay before him, and excited 
his ears to catch the slightest sound which might announce any 
commotion in the beleaguered city. But its huge clocks had 
successively knelled three hours after midnight, and all con¬ 
tinued still and silent as the grave. 

At length, and just when Quentin began to think the 
attack would be deferred till daybreak, and joyfully recol¬ 
lected that there would be then light enough to descry the bar 
sinister across the fleur-de-lys of Orleans, he thought he heard 
in the city a humming murmur, like that of disturbed bees 
mustering for the defence of their hives. He listened; the 
noise continued, but it was of a character so undistinguished 
by any peculiar or precise sound, that it might be the murmur 
of a wind rising among the boughs of a distant grove, or per¬ 
haps some stream swollen by the late rain, which was dis¬ 
charging itself into the sluggish Maes with more than usual 
clamour. Quentin was prevented by these considerations from 
instantly giving the alarm, which, if done carelessly, would 
; have been a heavy offence. 

j But when the noise rose louder, and seemed pouring at the 
I same time towards his own post, and towards the suburb, he 
I deemed it his duty to fall back as silently as possible, and call 
his uncle, who commanded the small body of archers destined 
to his support. All were on their feet in a moment, and with 
as little noise as possible. In less than a second. Lord Craw¬ 
ford was at their head, and despatching an archer to alarm the 
King and his household, drew back his little party to some dis¬ 
tance behind their watch-fire, that they might not be seen by 
its light. The rushing sound, which had approached them 
more nearly, seemed suddenly to have ceased; but they still 
heard distinctly the more distant heavy tread of a large body 
of men approaching the suburb. 

“The lazy Burgundians are asleep on their post,” whis- 




S4Z ^ Quentin Durward , 

pered Crawford; “make for the suburb, Cunningham, and; 
awaken the stupid oxen.” | 

“Keep well to the rear as you go,” said Durward; “if ever. 
I heard the tread of mortal men, there is a strong body inter-1 
posed between us and the suburb.” 

“Well said, Quentin, my dainty callant,” said Crawford; 
“thou art a soldier beyond thy years. They only make halt 
till the others come forward. I would I had some knowledge 
where they are!” 

“I will creep forward, my lord,” said Quentin, ^‘and 
endeavour to bring you information.” 

“Do so, my bonny chield; thou hast sharp ears and eyes., 
and good will; but take heed, I would not lose thee for two 
and a plack.” ^ , 

Quentin, with his harquebuss ready prepared, stole for¬ 
ward, through ground which he had reconnoitred carefully in 
the twilight of the preceding evening, until he was not only 
certain that he was in the neighbourhood of a very large body 
of men, who were standing fast betwixt the King’s quarters 
and the suburbs, but also that there was a detached party 
of smaller number in advance, and very close to him. 
They seemed to whisper together, as if uncertain what ; 

to do next. At last, the steps of two or three enfans \ 

perdusj^ detached from that smaller party approached him 

so near as twice a pike’s length. Seeing it impossible to 

retreat undiscovered, Quentin called out aloud, “Qui viveT^ 
and was answered hy^'Vive Li — Li — ege—cest d dire” added 
he who spoke, correcting himself, “F/V’e^ Quentin ' 
instantly fired his harquebuss; a man groaned and fell, and 
he himself, under the instant but vague discharge of a number 
of pieces,, the fire of which ran in a disorderly manner alongst 

^ Two and a plack. Two pennies and a half-penny; a plack is an old Scotch i 
copper coin. 

^Enfans perdus. Literallv. lost children. 

^Qui vive. Who goes there r I 

4 Long live Liege—that is to say. Long live France. ! 







Quentin Durward 543 

the column, and showed it to be very numerous, hastened back 
■ to the main guard. 

“Admirably done, my brave boy!” said Crawford. “Now, 
callants, draw in within the courtyard ; they are too many to 
melC with in the open field.” 

• They drew^ within the courtyard and garden accordingly, 
where they found all in great order, and the King prepared to 
mount his horse. 

“Whither aw^ay, sire?” said Crawford; “you are safest 
here with your own people.” 

“Not so,” said Louis; “I must instantly to the Duke. He 
must be convinced of our good faith at this critical moment, 
or we shall have both Liegeois and Burgundians upon us at 
once.” And springing on his horse, he bade Dunois command 
the French troops without the house, and Crawford the 
Archer Guard and other household troops to defend the lust- 
haus and its inclosures. He commanded them to bring up 
two sakers^ and as many falconets (pieces of cannon for the 
field), which had been left about half a mile in the rear; and 
in the meantime, to make good their posts, but by no means 
to advance, whatever success they might obtain; and having 
given these orders, he rode off, with a small escort, to the 
Duke’s quarters. 

The delay which permitted these arrangements to be 
carried fully into effect was owing to Quentin’s having for¬ 
tunately shot the proprietor of the house, who acted as guide 
to the column which was designed to attack it, and whose 
attack, had it been made instantly, might have had a chance of 
being successful. 

Durward, who, by the King’s order, attended him to the 
Duke’s, found the latter in a state of choleric distemperature, 
which almost prevented his discharging the duties of a gen¬ 
eral, which were never more necessary; for, besides the noise 
of a close and furious combat which had now taken place in 

^Mell. Meddle. 

^Sakers. Small guns used in a siege. 




544 Quentin Durward 

the suburb upon the left of their whole army—besides the ; 
attack upon the King’s quarters, which was fiercely main- > 

tained in the centre—a third column of Liegeois, of even . 

superior numbers, had filed out from a more distant breach, 
and, marching by lanes, vineyards, and passes known to them¬ 
selves, had fallen upon the right flank of the Burgundian 
army, who, alarmed at their war-cries of ''Vive la FranceT 
and "Denis MontjoyeV which mingled with those of "Liege" . 
and "Rouge Sanglier/" and at the idea thus inspired, of 
treachery on the part of the French confederates, made a very ^ 
desultory and imperfect resistance; while the Duke, foaming, i 
and swearing, and cursing his liege lord and all that belonged 
to him, called out to shoot with bow and gun on all that was 
French, whether black or white—alluding to the sleeves with 
which Louis’s soldiers had designated themselves. 

The arrival of the King, attended only by Le Balafre and 
Quentin, and half a score of archers, restored confidence 
between France and Burgundy. D’Hymbercourt, Crevecoeur, 
and others of the Burgundian leaders, whose names were then 
the praise and dread of war, rushed devotedly into the con¬ 
flict ; and, w'hile some commanders hastened to bring up more 
distant troops, to whom the panic had not extended, others 
threw themselves into the tumult, reanimated the instinct of 
discipline, and while the Duke toiled in the front, shouting, ! 
hacking, and hewing, like an ordinary man-at-arms, brought 
their men by degrees into array, and dismayed the assailants 
by the use of their artillery. The conduct of Louis, on the 
other hand, was that of a calm, collected, sagacious leader, 
who neither sought nor avoided danger, but showed so much 
self-possession and sagacity that the Burgundian leaders readily 
obeyed the orders \vhich he issued. 

The scene was now become in the utmost degree animated 
and horrible. On the left the suburb, after a fierce contest, 
had been set on fire, and a wide and dreadful conflagration 
did not prevent the burning ruins from being still disputed. 
On the centre, the French troops, though pressed by immense i 




545 


Quentin Durward 

1 odHs, kept up so close and constant a fire that the little 
pleasure-house shone bright with the glancing flashes, as if 
i surrounded with a martyr’s crown of flames. On the left,, the 
battle swayed backwards and forwards with varied success, as 
fresh reinforcements poured out of the town, or were brought 
forward from the rear of the Burgundian host; and the strife 
continued with unremitting fury for three mortal hours, 
which at length brought the dawn, so much desired by the 
besiegers. The enemy, at this period, seemed to be slackening 
their efforts upon the right and in the centre, and several dis¬ 
charges of cannon were heard from the lusthaus. 

“Go,” said the King, to Le Balafre and Quentin, the instant 
his ear had caught the sound; “they have got up the sakers 
and falconets; the pleasure-house is safe, blessed be the Holy 
Virgin! Tell Dunois to move this way, but rather nearer the 
walls of Liege, with all our men-at-arms, excepting what he 
may leave for the defence of the house, and cut in between 
those thick-headed Liegeois on the right and the city, from 
which they are supplied with recruits.” 

The uncle and nephew galloped off to Dunois and Craw¬ 
ford, who, tired of their defensive war, joyfully obeyed the 
summons, and filing out at the head of a gallant body of about 
two hundred French gentlemen., besides squires, and the 
greater part of the archers and their followers, marched across 
- the field, trampling down the wounded, till they gained the 
flank of the large body of Liegeois, by whom the right of the 
Burgundians had been so fiercely assailed. The increasing 
daylight discovered that the enemy were continuing to pour 
out from the city, either for the purpose of continuing the 
battle on that point, or of bringing safely off the forces who 
were already engaged. 

“By Heaven!” said old Crawford to Dunois, “were I not 
certain it is thou that art riding by my side, I would say I saw 
thee among yonder banditti and burghers, marshalling and 
arraying them with thy mace—only, if yon be thou, thou art 
bigger than thou art wont to be. Art thou sure yonder armed 







5!6 Quentin Durward i 

leader is not thy wraith, thy double-man,^ as these Flemings j 
call it?” 

“My wraith !” said Dunois; “I know not what you mean. ' 
But yonder is a caitiff with my bearings displayed on crest and ’ 
shield, whom I will presently punish for his insolence.” ; 

“In the name of all that is noble, my lord, leave the ven- J 
geance to me!” said Quentin. 

“To thee indeed, young man!” said Dunois; “that is a 
modest request. No—these things brook no substitution.” 
Then turning on his saddle, he called out to those around him, 
“Gentlemen of France, form your line, level your lances! Let 
the rising sunbeams shine through the battalions of yonder 
swine of Liege and hogs of Ardennes, that masquerade in our 
ancient coats.” 

The men-at-arms answered with a loud shout of ‘ A 
Dunois—a Dunois! Long live the bold Bastard! Orleans 
to the rescue!” And with their leader in the centre, they 
charged at full gallop. They encountered no timid enemy. 
The large body w^hich they charged, consisted, excepting some 
mounted officers, entirely of infantry, who, setting the butt of 
their lances against their feet, the front rank kneeling, the 
second stooping, and those behind presenting their spears over 
their heads, offered such resistance to the. rapid charge of the 
men-at-arms as the hedgehog presents to his enemy. Few 
were able to make way through that iron wall; but of those 
few was Dunois, who, giving spur to his horse, and making 
the noble animal leap more than twelve feet at a bound, fairly 
broke his way into the middle of the phalanx, and made 
towards the object of his animosity. What was his surprise to 
find Quentin still by his side, and fighting in the same front 
with himself—youth,, desperate courage, and the determina¬ 
tion to do or die, having still kept the youth abreast with the 
best knight in Europe, for such was Dunois reported, and 
truly reported, at the period. 

^Wraith, etc. An apparition in the exact likeness of a person; the doppelganger 
of the Germans. , 




547 


Quentin Durward 

Their spears were soon broken; but the lanzknechts were 
unable to withstand the blows of their long heavy swords; 
i while the horses and riders, armed in complete steel, sustained 
little injury from their lances. Still Dunois and Durward 
were contending with rival efforts to burst forward to the 
spot where he who had usurped the armorial bearings of 
Dunois was doing the duty of a good and valiant leader, when 
, Dunois, observing the boar’s head and tusks, the usual bearing 
of William de la Marck, in another part of the conflict, called 
out to Quentin, “Thou art worthy to avenge the arms of 
Orleans! I leave thee the task. Balafre, support your 
nephew; but let none dare to interfere with Dunois’ boar- 
hunt.” 

That Quentin Durward joyfully acquiesced in this division 
of labour cannot be doubted, and each pressed forward upon 
his separate object, followed, and defended from behind, by 
such men-at-arms as were able to keep up with them. 

But at this moment the column which De la Marck had 
proposed to support, when his own course was arrested by the 
charge of Dunois, had lost all the advantages they had gained 
during the night; while the Burgundians, with returning day, 
had begun to show the qualities which belong to superior 
discipline. The great mass of Liegeois were compelled to 
^ retreat, and at length to fly; and, falling back on those who 
were engaged with the French men-at-arms, the whole became 
! a confused tide of fighters, fliers, and pursuers, which rolled 
itself towards the city walls, and at last was poured into the 
ample and undefended breach through which the Liegeois had 
sallied. 

Quentin made more than human exertions to overtake the 
special object of his pursuit, who was still in his sight, striving, 
by voice and example, to renew the battle, and bravely sup¬ 
ported by a chosen party of lanzknechts. Le Balafre and 
several of his comrades attached themselves to Quentin, much 
marvelling at the extraordinary gallantry displayed by so 
. young a soldier. On the very brink of the breach De la 

'4 





548 Quentin Durward 

Marck—for it was himself—succeeded in effecting a momen¬ 
tary stand, and repelling some of the most forward of the pur¬ 
suers. He had a mace^ of iron in his hand, before which 
everything seemed to go down, and was so much covered with 
blood that it was almost impossible to discern those bearings 
on his shield which had so much incensed Dunois. 

Quentin now found little difficulty in singling him out; 
for the commanding situation of which he had possessed him¬ 
self, and the use he made of his terrible mace, caused many of 
the assailants to seek safer points of attack than that where 
so desperate a defender presented himself. But Quentin, to 
whom the importance attached to victory over this formidable 
antagonist was better known, sprung from his horse at the 
bottom of the breach, and letting the noble animal, the gift 
of the Duke of Orleans, run loose through the tumult, 
ascended the ruins to measure swords with the Boar of 
Ardennes. The latter, as if he had seen his intention, turned 
towards Durward with mace uplifted; and they were on the 
point of encounter when a dreadful shout of triumph, of 
tumult, and of despair announced that the besiegers were 
entering the city at another point, and in the rear of those 
who defended the breach. Assembling around him, by voice 
and bugle, the desperate partners of his desperate fortune, De 
la Marck, at those appalling sounds, abandoned the’ breach, 
and endeavoured to effect his retreat towards a part of the 
city from which he might escape to the other side of the Maes. 
His immediate followers formed a deep body of well-disciplined 
men, who, never having given quarter, were resolved now not 
to ask it, and who, in that hour of despair, threw themselves 
into such firm order that their front occupied the whole breadth 
of the street through which they slowly retired, making head 
from time to time, and checking the pursuers, many of whom 
began to seek a safer occupation by breaking into the houses 
for plunder. It is therefore probable that De la Marck might 

^Mace. A heavy club armed with spikes, or plated, swung with one hand 
and used to crush in the armor of an opponent. 



Quentin Durward 549 

have effected his escape, his disguise concealing him from those 
who promised themselves to win honor and grandeur upon 
his head, but for the stanch pursuit of Quentin,, his uncle Le 
Balafre, and some of his comrades. At every pause which was 
made by the lanzknechts a furious combat took place betwixt 
them and the archers, and in every jnelee Quentin sought De 
la Marck; but the latter, whose present object was to retreat, 
seemed to evade the young Scot’s purpose of bringing him to 
single combat. The confusion was general in every direction. 
The shrieks and cries of women, the yelling of the terrified 
inhabitants, now subjected to the extremity of military license, 
sounded horribly shrill amid the shouts of battle, like the voice 
of misery and despair contending with that of fury and 
violence., which should be heard farthest and loudest. 

It was just when De la Marck, retiring through this 
infernal scene, had passed the door of a small chapel of 
peculiar sanctity, that the shouts of “France—France! Bur¬ 
gundy—Burgundy!” apprised hirn that a part of the besiegers 
were entering the farther end of the street, which was a nar¬ 
row one, and that his retreat was cut off. “Conrade,” he said, 
“take all the raen with you. Charge yonder fellows roundly, 
and break through if you can ; with me it is over. I am man 
enough, now that I am brought to bay, to send some of these 
, vagabond Scots to hell before me.” 

His lieutenant obeyed, and, with most of the few lanz- 
• knechts who remained alive, hurried to the farther end of the 
street, for the purpose of charging those Burgundians who 
were advancing, and so forcing their way so as to escape. 
About six of De la March’s best men remained to perish with 
their master, and fronted the archers, who were not many more 
in number. “Sanglier! Sanglier! Hola! gentlernen of Scot¬ 
land,” said the ruffian but undaunted chief, waving his mace, 
“who longs to gain a coronet—who strikes at the Boar of 
Ardennes? You, young man, have, methinks, a hankering; 
but you must win ere you wear it.” 

Quentin heard but imperfectly the words, which were 





550 Quentin Durward 

partly lost in the hollow helmet; but the action could not be 
mistaken, and he had but time to bid his uncle and comrades, 
as they were gentlemen, to stand hack, when De la Marck 
sprung upon him with a bound like a tiger, aiming at the 
same time a blow with his mace, so as to make his hand and 
foot keep time together, and giving his stroke full advantage 
of the descent of his leap; but, light of foot and quick of eye, 
Quentin leaped aside, and disappointed an aim which would 
have been fatal had it taken effect. 

They then closed, like the wolf and the wolf-dog, their 
comrades on either side remaining inactive spectators, for Le 
Balafre roared out for fair play, adding, “that he would ven¬ 
ture his nephew on him, were he as wight as Wallace.” ^ 

Neither was the experienced soldier’s confidence unjusti¬ 
fied ; for, although the blows of the despairing robber fell like 
those of the hammer on the anvil, yet the quick motions and 
dexterous swordsmanship of the young archer enabled him to 
escape, and to requite them with the point of his less noisy 
though more fatal weapon; and that so often and so effec¬ 
tually, that the huge strength of his antagonist began to give 
way to fatigue, while the ground on which he stood became 
a puddle of blood. Yet still unabated in courage and ire, the 
Wild Boar of Ardennes fought on with as much mental 
energy as at first, and Quentin’s victory seemed dubious and 
distant, when a female voice behind him called him by his 
name, ejaculating, “Help—help! for the sake of the blessed 
Virgin 1” 

He turned his head, and with a single glance beheld Ger¬ 
trude Pavilion, her mantle stripped from her shoulders, dragged 
forcibly along by a French soldier, one of several, who, break¬ 
ing into the chapel close by, had seized, as their prey, on the 
terrified females who had taken refuge there. 

“Wait for me but one moment,” exclaimed Quentin to De 


1 wight as Wallace. Wallace Wight—Wallace the Strong; a favorite designa¬ 
tion of Scotland’s great hero. 



551 


! : 

' Quentin Durward 

la Marck, and sprung to extricate his benefactress from a 
■ situation of which he conjectured all the dangers, 
i “I wait no man’s pleasure,” said De la Marck, flourishing 

, his mace, and beginning to retreat, glad, no doubt, of being 
' free of so formidable an assailant. 

“You shall.wait mine, though, by your leave,” said Bala- 
^ fre; “I will not have my nephew baulked.” So saying, he 
instantly assaulted De4a Marck with his two-handed sword. 

Quentin found, in the meanwhile, that the rescue of Ger¬ 
trude was a task more difficult than could be finished in one 
moment. Her captor, supported by his comrades, refused to 
relinquish his prize; and whilst Durward, aided by one or 
two of his countrymen, endeavoured to compel him to do so, 
the former beheld the chance which Fortune had so kindly 
afforded him for fortune and happiness glide out of his reach; 
so that, when he stood at length in the street with the liberated 
Gertrude, there was no one near them. Totally forgetting 
the defenceless situation of his companion, he was about to 
spring away in pursuit of the Boar of Ardennes, as the grey- 
ffound tracks the deer, when, clinging to him in her despair, 

' she exclaimed, “For the sake of your mother’s honour, leave 
me not here! As you are a gentleman, protect me to my 
father’s house, which once sheltered you and the Lady Isa¬ 
belle! For her,sake leave me not!” 

Her call was agonising, but it was irresistible; and bid- 
1 ^ mental adieu, with unutterable bitterness of feeling, to 

\ all the gay hopes which had stimulated his exertion, carried 
) him through that bloody day, and which at one moment 
" seemed to approach consummation, Quentin, like an unwilling 
spirit who obeys a talisman which he cannot resist, protected 
Gertrude to Pavilion’s house, and arrived in time to defend 
that and the syndic himself against the fury of the licentious 
soldiery. 

Meantime the King and the Duke of Burgundy entered 
the city on horseback, and through one of the breaches. They 
.. were both in complete armour, but the latter, covered with 

i 

h 




552 


Quentin Durward 

blood from the plume to the spur, drove his steed furiously 
up the breach, which Louis surmounted with the stately pace 
of one who leads a procession. They despatched orders to 
stop the sack of the city, which had already commenced, and 
to assemble their scattered troops. The princes themselves 
proceeded towards the great church, both for the protection of 
many of the distinguished inhabitants, who had taken refuge 
there, and in order to hold a sort of military council after they 
had heard high mass. 

Busied like other officers of his rank in collecting those 
under his command. Lord Crawford, at the turning of one of 
the streets which leads to the Maes, met Le Balafre saunter¬ 
ing composedly towards the river, holding in his hand, by the 
gory locks, a human head, with as much indifference as a 
fowler carries a game-pouch. 

“How now, Ludovic!” said his commander; “what are ye 
doing with that carrion?” 

It is all that is left of a bit of work which my nephew 
shaped out and nearly finished, and I put the last hand to,” 
said Le Balafre—“a good fellow that I 'despatched yonder, 
and who prayed me to throw his head into the Maes. Men 
have queer fancies when old Small Back^ is gripping them ; 
but Small Back must lead down the dance with us all in our 
time.” 

“And you are going to throw that head into the Maes ?” 
said Crawford, looking more attentively on the ghastly 
memorial of mortality. 

“Ay, truly am Ij” said Ludovic Lesly. “If you refuse a 
dying man his boon, you are likely to be haunted by his 
ghost, and I love to sleep sound at nights.” 

“You must take your chance of the ghaist, man,” said 
Crawford; “for, b- my soul, there is more lies on that dead 
pow^ than you think for. Come along with me—not a word 
more—come along with me.” 

as a skdetoT—S.’ ^ expression in Scotland for death, usnally delineated 

"^Pow. Head. 




553 


Quentin Durward 

“Nay, for that matter,” said Le Balafre “I made him no 
promise; for, in truth, I had off his head before the tongue 
had well done wagging; and as I feared him not living, by St. 
j * Martin of Tours, I fear him as little when he is dead. Besides., 
my little gossip, the merry friar of St. Martin’s, will lend me a 
pot of holy water.” 

When high mass had been said in the cathedral church of 
Liege, and the terrified town was restored to some moderate 
degree of order, Louis and Charles, with their peers around, 
proceeded to hear the claims of those who had any to make for 
services performed during the battle. Those which respected 
the county of Croye and its fair mistress were first received, 
and, to the disappointment of sundry claimants wTo had 
! thought themselves sure of the rich prize, there seemed doubt 
j and mystery to involve their several pretensions. Crevecoeur 
showed a boar’s hide such as De la Marck usually wore; 
Dunois produced a cloven shield, with his armorial bearings; 
and there w’ere others who claimed the merit of having des¬ 
patched the murderer of the bishop, producing similar tokens— 
the rich reward fixed on De la March’s head having brought 
I death to all who were armed in his resemblance. 

I There was much noise and contest among the competitors, 
and Charles, internally regretting the rash promise which had 
placed the hand and wealth of his fair vassal on such a hazard, 
was in hopes he might find means of evading all these con¬ 
flicting claims, when Crawford pressed forward into the 
circle, dragging Le Balafre after him, who, awkward and 
bashful, followed like an unwilling mastiff towed on in a 
leash, as his leader exclaimed,—“Away with your hoofs and 
hides, and painted iron! No one, save he who slew the Boar, 
can show the tusks!” 

So saying, he flung on the floor the bloody head, easily 
known as that of De la Marck by the singular conformation 
of the jaws, which in reality had a certain resemblance to 






554 


Quentin Durward 

those of tke animal whose name he bore, and which was 
instantly recognised by all who had seen him/ 

“Crawford,” said Louis, while Charles sat silent, in 
gloomy and displeased surprise, “I trust it is one of my faith¬ 
ful Scots who has won this prize?” 

“It is Ludovic Lesly, sire, whom we call Le Balafre,” 
replied the old soldier. 

“But is he noble,” said the Duke—“is he of gentle blood? ^ 
Otherwise dur promise is void.” 

“He is a cross ungainly piece of wood enough,” said 
Crawford, looking at the tall, awkward, embarrassed figure 
of the archer; “but I will warrant him a branch of the tree of 
Rothes for all that, and they have been as noble as any house 
in France or Burgundy, ever since it is told of their founder 
that, 

“Between the less-lee ~ and the mair 
He slew the knight, and left him there.” 

“There is then no help for it,” said the Duke, “and the 
fairest and richest heiress in Burgundy must be the wife of 
a rude mercenary soldier like this, or die secluded in a 
convent—and she the only child of our faithful Reginald 
[Reinold] de Croye! I have been too rash.” 

And a cloud settled on his brow, to the surprise ©f his 
peers, who seldom saw him evince the slightest token of regret 
for the necessary consequences of an adopted resolution. 

“Hold but an instant,” said the Lord Crawford, “it may 
be better than your Grace conjectures. Hear but what this 
cavalier has to say. Speak out, man, and a murrain ^ on thee,” 
he added apart to Le Balafre. 

^Who had seen him. See Note 36.— Anachronisms, 

^Between the less-lee. An old rhyme by which the Leslies vindicate their 
descent from an ancient hero who is said to have slain a gigantic Hungarian 
champion, and to have formed a proper name for himself by a play of words upon 
the place where he fought his adversary.— Scott. 

^Murrain. An infection, a plague. 




555 


’ ' 

Quentin Durward 

But that blunt soldier, though he could make a shift to 
; express himself intelligibly enough to King Louis, to whose 
familiarity he was habituated,, yet found himself incapable of 
enunciating his resolution before so splendid an assembly as 
that in presence of which he then stood; and after having 
turned his shoulder to the princes, and preluded with a 
hoarse chuckling laugh, and two or three tremendous contor¬ 
tions of countenance, he was able to pronounce the words, 
“Saunders Souplejaw”—and then stuck fast. 

“May it please your Majesty and your Grace,” said 
Crawford, “I must speak for my countryman and old com¬ 
rade. You shall understand that he has had it prophesied to 
him by a seer in his own land, that the fortune of his house is 
to be made by marriage; but as he is, like mj'self, something 
the worse for w^ear,—loves the wine-house better than a 
lady’s summer-parlour, and in short having some barrack 
tastes and likings which would make greatness in his own 
person rather an encumbrance to him, he hath acted by my 
advice, and resigns the pretensions acquired by the fate of 
slaying William de la Marck to him by whom the Wild Boar 
was actually brought to bay, who is his maternal nephew.” 

“I will vouch for that youth’s services and prudence,” said 
King Louis, overjoyed to see that fate had thrown so gallant 
i a prize to one over whom he had some influence. “Without 
- his prudence and vigilance we had been ruined. It was he 
who made us aware of the night-sally.” 

“I then,” said Charles, “owe him some reparation for 
doubting his veracity.” 

“And I can attest his gallantry as a man-at-arms,” said 
Dunois. 

“But,” interrupted Crevecmur, “though the uncle be a 
Scottish gentillatre^ that makes not the nephew necessarily so.” 

“H is of the house of Durward,” said Crawford; 
“descended from that Allan Durward who was High Steward 
of Scotland.”. 




^Gentill&tre. Country squire. 




556 


Quentin Durward 

“Nay, if it be 5 ^oung Durward,” said Crevecoeur, “I say no 
more. Fortune has declared herself on his side too plainly for 
me to struggle farther with her humoursome ladyship; but it 
is strange, from lord to horseboy, how^ w^onderfully these Scots 
stick by each other.” 

“Highlanders, shoulder to shoulder!” answered Lord Craw¬ 
ford, laughing at the mortification of the proud Burgundian. 

“We have yet to inquire,” said Charles, thoughtfully, 
“what the fair lady’s sentiments may be towards this for¬ 
tunate adventurer.” 

“By the mass!” said Crevecoeur, “I have but too much 
reason to believe your Grace will find her more amenable to 
authority than on former occasions. But why should I grudge 
this youth his preferment, since., after all, it is sense, firmness, 
and gallantry which have put him in possession of Wealth, 
Rank, and Beauty?” 


I HAD already sent these sheets to the press, concluding, as 
I thought, with a moral of excellent tendency for the encour¬ 
agement of all fair-haired, blue-eyed, long-legged, stout¬ 
hearted emigrants from my native country who might be 
willing in stirring times to take up the gallant profession of 
ctivalieros ^ of fortune. But a friendly monitor, one of those 
who like the lump of sugar w^hich is found at the bottom of a 
tea-cup as well as the flavour of the souchong^ itself, has 
entered a bitter remonstrance, and insists that I should give a 
precise and particular account of the espousals of the young 
heir of Glen Houlakin and the lovely Flemish countess, and 
fell what tournaments were held, and how many lances were 
broken, upon so Interesting an occasion ; nor withhold from 
the curious reader the number of sturdy boys who inherited 
the valour of Quentin Durward, and of bright damsels in 
whom were renewed the charms of Isabelle de Croye. I 

^Cavalieros. Cavaliers. 

^Souchong. A sort of black tea. 





I 


. Quentin Durward 557 

replied in course of post, that times were changed, and public 
weddings were entirely out of fashion. In days, traces of 
which I myself can remember, not only were the “fifteen 
friends” of the happy pair invited to witness their union, but 
the bridal minstrelsy still continued,, as in the Ancient 
Mariner, to “nod their heads” till morning shone on them. 
Thei sack-posset ^ was eaten in the nuptial chamber, the stock¬ 
ing was thrown, and the bride’s garter was struggled for in 
tbe presence of the happy couple whom Hymen had made one 
flesh. The authors of the period were laudably accurate in 
following its fashions. They spared 5 'ou not a blush of the 
bride, not a rapturous glance of the bridegroom, not a diamond 
in her hair, not a button on his embroidered waistcoat; until 
I at length, with Astraea," “they fairly put their characters to 
' bed.” But how little does this agree with the modest privacy 
j which induces our modern brides—sweet bashful darlings!—to 
steal from pomp and plate, and admiration and flattery, and, 
like honest Shenstone,^ 

Seek for freedom at an inn! 

To these, unquestionably, an exposure of the circum¬ 
stances of publicity with which a bridal in the 15th century 
was always celebrated must appear in the highest degree dis¬ 
gusting. Isabelle de Croye would be ranked in their estimation 
far below^ the maid who milks and does the meanest chares,'^ 
for even she, were it in the church-porch, would reject the 
hand of her journeyman shoemaker should he propose “faire 
des nocesT RS it is called on Parisian signs ° instead of going 
down on the top of the long coach to spend the honeymoon 

^Sack-posset. A concoction of sack-wine, milk, eggs, etc. 

^Aslrcea. [The name of the Goddess of Justice, assumed by Mrs. Aphra 
Behn (1640-89), a notorious writer of romances and plays. 

^Shenstone. William Shenstone (1714-63). an English poet. The line quoted 
is adapted from one of his poems, entitled Written at an Inn at Henley. 

^Chares. Chores. 

^Parisian signs. The Paris inn-keepers’ notice runs salle d faire des noces, 
a hall for wedding festivities. 






558 


Quextix Durward 

incognito at Deptford or Greenwich. I will not, therefore, 
tell more of this matter, but will steal away from the wedding 
as Ariosto from that of Angelica,^ leaving it to whom it may 
please to add farther particulars, after the fashion of their 
own imagination. 

Some better bard shall sing, in feudal state 
How Bracquemont’s Castle op’d, its Gothic gate, 

When on the wand’ring Scot its lovely heir 
Bestow’d her beauty and an earldom fair.^ 

^Angelica. Heroine of the Italian poet Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso; she falls 
in love with an obscure squire, Medoro. 

^Some better bard, etc. Adapted from Orlando Furioso, canto X X X., Stanza 16 




SCOTT’S INTRODUCTION 


I The scene of this romance is laid in the 15th century, when the 
feudal system, which had been th'e sinews and nerves of national 
defence, and the spirit of chivalry, by which, as by a vivifying soul, 
that system was animated, began to be innovated upon and abandoned 
by those grosser characters who centered their sum of happiness in 
procuring the personal objects on which they had fixed their own 
exclusive attachment. The same egotism had indeed displayed itself 
even in more primitive ages; but it was now for the first time openly 
I avowed as a professed principle of action. The spirit of chivalry had 
! in it this point of excellence, that however overstrained and fantastic 
many of its doctrines may appear to us, they were all founded on 
: generosity and self-denial, of which if the earth were deprived, it 
: would be difficult to conceive the existence of virtue among the 
I human race. 

( Among those who were the first to ridicule and abandon the self- 
! denying principles in which the young knight was instructed, and to 
which he was so carefully trained up, Louis the Eleventh of France 
was the chief. That sovereign was of a character so purely selfish— 
so guiltless of entertaining any purpose unconnected with his ambi¬ 
tion, covetousness, and desire of selfish enjoyment, that he almost 
seems an incarnation of the devil himself, permitted to do his utmost 
[ to corrupt our ideas of honour in its very source. Nor is it to be for- 
; gotten that Louis possessed to a great extent that caustic wit which 
S can turn into ridicule all that a man does for any other person’s 
advantage but his own, and was, therefore, peculiarly qualified to 
play the part of a cold-hearted and sneering fiend. 

' In this point of vie^w, Goethe’s conception of the character and 

reasoning of Mephistophiles, the tempting spirit in the singular play 
of Faust, appears to me more happy than that which has been formed 
by Byron, and even than the Satan of Milton. These last great 
■ authors have given to the Evil Principle something which elevates 
and dignifies his wickedness—a sustained and unconquerable resist¬ 
ance against Omnipotence itself, a lofty scorn of suffering compared 
with submission, and all those points of attraction in the Author of 
Evil which have induced Burns and others to consider him as the 
hero of the Paradise Lost. The great German poet has, on the con¬ 
trary, rendered his seducing spirit a being who, otherwise totally 


559 






560 


Quentin Durward 


unimpassioned, seems only to have existed for the purpose of increas¬ 
ing, by his persuasions and temptations, the mass of moral evil, and 
who calls forth by his seductions those slumbering passions which 
otherwise might have allowed the human being who was the object 
of the evil spirit’s operations to pass the tenor of his life in tranquillity 
For this purpose Mephistopheles is, like Louis XL, endowed with an 
acute and depreciating spirit of caustic wit, which is employed inces¬ 
santly in undervaluing and vilifying all actions the consequences of 
which do not lead certainly and directly to self-gratification. 

Even an author of works of mere amusement may be permitted to 
be serious for a moment, in order to reprobate all policy, whether of 
a public or private character, which rests its basis upon the principles 
of Machiavel ^ or the practice of Louis XL 

The cruelties, the perjuries, the suspicions of this prince were 
rendered more detestable, rather than amended, by the gross and 
debasing superstition which he constantly practised. The devotion to 
the Heavenly saints, of which he made such a parade, was upon the 
miserable principle of some petty deputy in office, who endeavours to 
hide or atone for the malversations of which he is conscious, by liberal 
gifts to those whose duty it is to observe his conduct, and endeavours 
to support a system of fraud by an attempt to corrupt the incorruptible. 
In no other light can we regard his creating the Virgin Mary a 
countess and colonel of his guards, or the cunning that admitted to 
one or two peculiar forms of oath the force of a binding obligation 
which he denied to all others, strictly preserving the secret, which 
mode of swearing he really accounted obligatory, as one of the most 
valuable of state mysteries. 

To a total want of scruple, or, it would appear, of any sense 
whatever of moral obligation, Louis XI. added great natural firmness 
and sagacity of character, with a system of policy so highly refined 
considermg the times he lived in, that he sometimes over-reached 
himselt by giving way to its dictates. 

Probably there is no portrait so dark as to be without its softer 
shades He understood the interests of France, and faithfully pur- 
sued them so long as he could identify them with his own. He carried 
the country safe through the dangerous crisis of the war termed for 
the public good”; “ in thus disuniting and dispersing this grand and 
dangerous alliance of the great crown vassals of France against the 
sovereign, a king of a less cautious and temporising character, and of 
a more bold and less crafty disposition, than Louis XL would, in all 
probability, have failed. Louis had also some personal accomplish- 

Statesman (1469-1527): See note, page 25 

ItwasknowUtSeLeagurofSrPubljG^^^^ 1465. 



561 


Quentin Durward 

ments not inconsistent with his public character. He was cheerful and 
witty in society; caressed his victim like the cat, w'hich can fawn 
when about to deal the most bitter wound; and none was better able 
to sustain and extol the superiority of the coarse and selfish reasons 
by which he endeavoured to supply those nobler motives for exertion 
which his predecessors had derived from the high spirit of chivalry. 

In fact that system was now becoming ancient, and had, even 
while in its perfection, something so overstrained and fantastic in 
its principles, as rendered it peculiarly the object of ridicule, when- 
i ever, like other old fashions, it began to fall out of repute, and the 
j weapons of raillery could be employed against it, without exciting 
! the disgust and horror with which they would have been rejected 
I at an early period as a species of blasphemy. In the 14th century 
I a tribe of scoffers had arisen who pretended to supply what was 
i naturally useful in chivalry by other resources, and threw ridicule 
i upon the extravagant and exclusive principles of honour and virtue 
j which were openly treated as absurd, because, in fact, they were cast 
I in a mould of perfection too lofty for the practice of fallible beings, 
i If an ingenuous and high-spirited youth proposed to frame himself on 
his father’s principles of honour, he was vulgarly derided as if he 
had brought to the field the good old knight’s Durindarte or two- 
handed sword, ridiculous from its antique make and fashion, although 
its blade might be the Ebro’s temper,^ and its ornaments of pure gold. 

In like manner, the principles of chivalry were cast aside, and 
their aids supplied by baser stimulants. Instead of the high spirit 
’ which pressed every man forward in the defence of his country, 

( Louis XI. substituted the exertions of the ever ready mercenary 
I soldier, and persuaded his subjects, among whom the mercantile class 
! began to make a figure, that it was better to leave to mercenaries the 
risks and labours of war, and to supply the crown with the means of 
paying them, than to peril themselves in defence of their own sub¬ 
stance The merchants were easily persuaded by this reasoning. The 
hour did not arrive, in the days of Louis XL, when the landed gentry 
and nobles could be in like manner excluded from the yanks of war; 
but the wily monarch commenced that system, which, acted upon by 
■ his successors, at length threw the whole military defence of the state 
into the hands of the crown. 

He was equally forward in altering the principles which were 
wont to regulate the intercourse of the sexes. The doctrines of 
chivalry had established in theory, at least, a system in which Beauty 
was the governing and remunerating divinity. Valour her slave, who 


77hyn\ temper The Ebro is one of the principal rivers in Spain. The 
phrase Le^ here is probably in allusion to fame of Spanish skill in the manu¬ 
facture of sword-blades. Compare a Toledo blade. 









562 


Quentin Durward 


caught his courage from her eye, and gave his life for her slightest 
service. It is true, the system here, as in other branches, was stretched 
to fantastic extravagance, and cases of scandal not unfrequently 
arose. Still they were generally such as those mentioned by Burke, 
where frailty was deprived of half its guilt by being purified from all 
its grossness.^ In Louis XI.’s practice it was far otherwise. He was 
a low voluptuary, seeking pleasure without sentiment, and despising i 
the sex from whom he desired to obtain it; his mistresses were of 
inferior rank, as little to be compared with the elevated though faulty i 
character of Agnes Sorel,- as Louis was to his heroic father, who freed ' 
France from the threatened yoke of England. In like manner, by i 
selecting his favourites and ministers from among the dregs of the i 
people, Louis showed the slight regard which he paid to eminent i 
station and high birth; and although this might be not only excusable I 
but meritorious, where the monarch’s fiat promoted obscure talent, or I 
called forth modest worth, it was very different when the King made 
his favourite associates of such men as Tristan I’Hermite, the chief of 
his marshalsea or police; and it was evident that such a prince could 
no longer be, as his descendant Francis elegantly designed himself ' 
“the first gentleman in his dominions.” ’ 

Nor were Louis’s sayings and actions, in private or public, of a r! 
kind which could redeem such gross offences against the character 
of a man of honour. His word, generally accounted the most sacred 
test of a mans character, and the least impeachment of which is a j 
capital offence by the code of honour, was forfeited without scruple 
on the slightest occasion, and often accompanied by the perpetration \ 
of the most enormous crimes.- If he broke his own personal and j 
p ighted faith, he did not treat that of the public with more ceremony. i| 
His sending an inferior person disguised as a herald to Edward iv! t 
was in those days, when heralds were esteemed the sacred deposi- 
taries of public and national faith, a daring imposition, of which few 
save this unscrupulous prince would have been guilty. ^ 

In short, the manners, sentiments, and actions of Louis XL were ' 
such as were inconsistent with the principles of chivalry, and his : 
caustic wit was sufficiently disposed to ridicule a svstem adopted on 
what he considered as the anost absurd of all bases, since it was ' 
founded on the principle of devoting toil, talents, and time to the 
accomplishment of objects from which no personal advantage could 
in the nature of things, be obtained. ’ . 


Agnes Sorel. The mistress of Charles VII., the father of Louis XT Tf 




563 


Quentin Durward 

It is more than probable that, in thus renouncing almost openly 
the ties of religion, honour, and morality, by which mankind at large 
feel themselves influenced, Louis sought to obtain great advantages in 
his negotiations with parties who might esteem themselves bound, 
while he himself enjoyed liberty. He started from the goal, he might 
suppose, like the racer who has got rid of the weights with which his 
competitors are still encumbered, and expects to succeed of coursev But 
Providence seems always to unite the existence of peculiar danger 
wdth some circumstance which may put those exposed to the peril 
upon their guard. The constant suspicion attached to any public 
person who becomes badly eminent for breach of faith is to him what 
the rattle is to the poisonous serpent; and men come at last to 
calculate, not so much on what their antagonist says, as upon that 
which he is likely to do; a degree of mistrust which tends to counter¬ 
act the intrigues of such a faithless character more than his freedom 
from the scruples of conscientious men can afford him advantage. 
The example of Louis XL raised disgust and suspicion rather than a 
desire of imitation among other nations in Europe, and the circum¬ 
stances of his outwitting more than one of his contemporaries operated 
to put others on their guard. Even the system of chivalry, though 
much less generally extended than heretofore, survived this profligate 
monarch’s reign, who did so much to sully its lustre, and long after 
the death of Louis XL it inspired the Knight without Fear and 
Reproach^ and the gallant Francis I. 

Indeed, although the reign of Louis had been as successful in a 
i political point of view as he himself could have desired, the spectacle 
of his death-bed might of itself be a warning-piece against the seduc- 
i tion of his example. Jealous of every one, but chiefly of his own son, 

‘ he immured himself in his Castle of Plessis, entrusting his person 
1 exclusively to the doubtful faith of his Scottish mercenaries. He 
never stirred from his chamber, he admitted no one into it; and 
wearied Heaven and every saint with prayers, not for the forgiveness 
of his sins, but for the prolongation of his life. With a poverty of 
spirit totally inconsistent with his shrewd worldly sagacity, he 
importuned his physicians until they insulted as well as plundered 
him. In his extreme desire of life, he sent to Italy for supposed relics, 
and the yet more extraordinary ^importation of an ignorant crack- 
brained peasant, who, from laziness probably, had shut himself up in 
a cave, and renounced flesh,' fish, eggs, or the produce of the dairy. 
This man, who did not possess the slightest tincture of letters, Louis 
reverenced as if he had been the Pope himself, and to gain his good¬ 
will founded two cloisters. 

iKnieht without Fear and Reproach. The Chevalier de Bayard (1476-1524). 
perhaps the most famous knight of the middle ages; he served three kings of France, 
Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I. 





564 


Quentin Durward 


It was not the least singular circumstance of this course of super¬ 
stition that bodily health and terrestrial felicity seemed to be his only 
objects. Making any mention of his sins when talking on the state'! 
of his health was strictly prohibited; and when at his command a 
priest recited a prayer to St. Eutropius, in which he recommended the 
King’s welfare both in body and soul, Louis caused the two last 
words to be omitted, saying it was not prudent to importune the* 
blessed saint by too many requests at once. Perhaps he thought by , 
being silent on his crimes, he might suffer them to pass out of the 
recollection of the celestial patrons, whose aid he invoked for his.'ii 
body. 

So great were the well-merited tortures of this tyrant’s death-bed,! 
that Philip des Comines enters into a regular comparison betweenfl 
them and the numerous cruelties inflicted on others by his order; and, 
considering both, comes to express an opinion, that the worldly pangs 
and agony suffered by Louis were such as might compensate the 
crimes he had committed, and that, after a reasonable quarantine in 
purgatory, he might in mercy be found duly qualified for the superior 
regions. 


Fenelon^ also has left his testimony against this prince, whose mode 
of living and governing he has described in the following remarkable 
passage;— 


“Pygmalion, tourmente par une soif insatiable des richesses, se rend 
de plus en plus miserable et odieux a ses sujets. C’est un crime a Tyr 
que d’ayoir de grands biens; I’avarice le rend defiant, soupgonneux, 
cruel; il persecute les riches, et il craint les pauvres. 

“C’est un crime encore plus grand a Tyr d’avoir de la vertu; car 
Pygmalion suppose que les bons ne peuvent souffrir ses injustices et 
ses infamies; la vertu le condamne; il s’aigrit et s’irrite contre elle. ' 
Tout I’agite, I’inquiete, le ronge; il a peur de son ombre; il ne dort i 
ni nuit ni jour; les Dieux, pour le confondre, I’accablent de tresors 
dont il n’ose jouir. Ce qu’il cherche pour etre heureux est precisement ; 
ce qui I’empeche de I’etre. Il regrette tout ce qu’il donne; il craint i 
toujours de perdre; il se tourmente pour gagner. ^ 

“On ne le yoit presque jamais; il est seul, triste, abattu, au fond de J 
son palais; ses amis memes n’osent I’aborder, de peur de lui devenir J 
suspects. Une garde terrible tient toujours des epees nues et des piques I 
levees autour de sa maison. Trente chambres qui communiquent les ^ 
unes aux autres, et dont chacune a une porte de fer avec six gros ver- ^ 
roux, sont le lieu ou il se renferme; on ne sait jamais dans laquelle de 


^FSnelon. Francois de F6nelon (1651-1715). an ecclesiastic anrl a 
writer; author of TilemaQue, a romance, the hero of which is Telemachus the sor 

^^itoJTendin was^" 






Quentin Durward 

ces chambres il couche; et on assure qu’il ne couche jamais deux nuits 
de suite dans la meme, de peur d’y etre egorge. II ne connoit ni les 
doux plaisirs, ni I’amitie encore plus douce. Si on lui parle de chei- 
cher la joie, il sent qu’elle fuit loin de lui, et qu’elle refuse d’entrer 
dans son coeur. Ses yeux creux sont pleins d’un feu apre et farouche; 
ils sont sans cesse errans de tons cotes; il prete I’oreille au moindre 
bruit, et se sent tout emu; il est pale, defait, et els noirs soucis sont 
peints sur son visage toujours ride. Il se tait, il soupire, il tire de 
son coeur de profonds gemissemens, il ne pent cacher les remords qui 
dechirent ses entrailles. Les mets les plus exquis le degoutent. Ses 
enfans, loin d’etre son esperance, sont le sujet de sa terreur; il en a 
fait ses plus dangereux ennemis. Il n’a eu toute sa vie aucun moment 
d’assure: il ne se conserve qu’a force de repandre le sang de tons 
ceux qu’il craint. Insense, qui ne voit pas que sa cruaute, a laquelle 
il se confie, le fera perir! Quelqu’un de ses domestiques, aussi defiant 
que lui, se hatera de delivrer le mode de ce monstre.” 

The instructive but appalling scene of this tyrant’s sufferings was 
at length closed by death, 30th August, 1483. 

The selection of this remarkable person as the principal character 
in the romance—for it will be easily comprehended that the little love 
intrigue of Quentin is only employed as the means of bringing out 
the story—afforded considerable facilities to the Author. The whole 
of Europe was, during the 15th century, convulsed with dissensions 
from such various causes, that it would have required almost a dis¬ 
sertation to have brought the English reader with a mind perfectly 
'alive and prepared to admit the possibility of the strange scenes to 
.which he was introduced. 

! In Louis XL’s time, extraordinary commotions existed throughout 
all Europe. England’s civil wars were ended rather in appearance 
than reality by the short-lived ascendency of the house of York. 
Switzerland was asserting that freedom which was afterwards so 
bravely defended. In the Empire and in France the great vassals of 
the crown w'ere endeavouring to emancipate themselves from its 
control, while Charles of Burgundy by main force, and Louis more 
artfully by indirect means, laboured to subject them to subservience 
to their respective sovereignties. Louis, while with one hand he cir¬ 
cumvented and subdued his own rebellious vassals, laboured secretly 
with the other to aid and encourage the large trading towns of 
Flanders to rebel against the Duke of Burgundy, to which their 
wealth and irritability naturally disposed them. In the more wood¬ 
land districts of Flanders, the Duke of Gueldres, and William de la 
Marck, called from his ferocitv the Wild Boar of Ardennes, were 
throwing off the habits of knights and gentlemen, to practise the 





566 


Quentin Durward 


violences and brutalities of common bandits. A hundred secret com¬ 
binations existed in the different provinces of France and Flanders; 
numerous private emissaries of the restless Louis—Bohemians, pil-' 
grims, beggars, or agents disguised as such—were everywhere spread¬ 
ing the discontent which it was his policy to maintain in the dominions! 
of Burgundy. 

Amidst so great an abundance of materials, it was difficult to 
select such as should be most intelligible and interesting to the reader; 
and the Author had to regret that, though he made liberal use of the 
power of departing frorrv the reality of history, he felt by no means 
confident of having brought his story into a pleasing, compact, and 
sufficiently intelligible form. The mainspring of the plot is that! 
which all who know the least of the feudal system can easily under¬ 
stand, though the facts are absolutely fictitious. The right of a 
feudal superior was in nothing more universally acknowledged than 
in his power to interfere in the marriage of a female vassal. This 
may appear to exist as a contradiction both of the civil and canon 
law, which declare that marriage shall be free, while the feudal or! 
municipal jurisprudence, in case of a fief passing to a female, 
acknowledges an interest in the superior of the fief to dictate the choice 
of her companion in marriage. This is accounted for on the principle 
that the superior was, by his bounty, the original grantor of the fief, 
and is still interested that the marriage of the vassal shall place no 
one there who may be inimical to his liege lord. On the other hand, 
it might be reasonably pleaded that this right of dictating to the 
vassal, to a certain extent, in the choice of a husband is only com¬ 
petent to the superior from whom the fief is originally derived. ' 
There is therefore no violent improbability in a vassal of Burgundy 
flying to the protection of the King of France, to whom the Duke of 
Burgundy himself was vassal; nor is it a great stretch of probability 
to affirm, that Louis, unscrupulous as he was, should have formed the 
design of betraying the fugitive into some alliance which might prove 
inconvenient, if not dangerous, to his formidable kinsman and vassal 
of Burgundy. 

I may add, that the romance of Quentin Durward, which acquired 
a popularity at home more extensive than some of its predecessors, 
found also unusual success on the contine.*'*, where the historical 
allusions awakened more familiar idea**- 
Abbotsford, 1st December, 1831. 




SCOTT’S NOTES TO QUENTIN DURWARD 
Note 1.—St. Hubert, p. 41 


Every vocation had in the Middle Ages its protecting saint. The 
chase, with its fortunes and its hazards, the business of so many and 
the amusement of all, was placed under the protection of St. Hubert. 
This silvan saint was the son of Bertrand, Duke of Acquitaine, and 
while in the secular state was a courtier of King Pepin. He was 
passionately fond of the chase, and used to neglect attendance on 
divine worship for this amusement. While he was once engaged in 
|i|this pastime, a stag appeared before him, having a crucifix bound 
betwixt his horns, and he heard a voice which menaced him with 
eternal punishment if he did not repent of his sins. He retired from 
the world and took orders, his wife having also retreated into the 
cloisters. Hubert afterwards became Bishop of Maestrecht and 
Liege* and, from his zeal in destroying remnants of idolatry, is 
called the Apostle of Ardennes and of Brabant. Those who were 
descended of his race were supposed to possess the power of curing 
persons bitten by mad dogs. 


Note 2.—Duke of Gueldres, p. 58 

This was Adolphus, son of Arnold and of Catherine de Bourbon. 
The present story has little to do with him, though one of the most 
atrocious characters of his time. He made war against his father in 
1 which unnatural strife he made the old man prisoner, and used him 
with the most brutal violence, proceeding, it is said, even to the length 
'.’of striking him with his hand. Arnold, in resentment of this usage, 
/disinherited the unprincipled wretch, and sold to Charles o ui- 
gundy whatever rights he had over the Duchy of Gueldres and 
Lrldom of Zutphen. Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles, 
restored these possessions to the unnatural Adolphus, who was slam 
in 1477. 

j^oTE 3. —Constable St. Paul, p. 59 

This part of Louis XI.’s reign was much embarrassed by the 
intrigues of the Constabie, St. Paui, who showed independence, and 
carried on intrigues with Engiand, France, and Burgundy at^ the 
same time. According to the usuai fate of such var.abie poimcians. 


567 




568 


Quentin Durward I 

the Constable ended by drawing upon himself the animosity o. all the 
powerful neighbours whom he had by turn amused and deceived. F 
He was delivered up by the Duke of Burgundy to the King of ■ 
France, tried, and hastily executed for treason, A. D. 1475. 


Note 4.—Bishop and Stephens, p. 71 


Sir Henry R. Bishop, the popular composer, and sometime'pro¬ 
fessor of music in Edinburgh University, died in 1855. Miss 
Catherine Stephens was a delightful vocalist, who performed at the 
principal concerts and musical festivals about the time this was 
written. In 1838 she became Countess of Essex by her marriage with 
George, the fifth earl (Laing)} 


Note 5.—Gipsies, or Bohemians, p. 95 


In a former volume (Guy Mannering) oi this edition of thel 
VVaverley Novels the reader will find some remarks on the gipsies asT 
they are found in Scotland. But it is well known that this extraor¬ 
dinary variety of the human race exists in nearly the same primitive 
state, speaking the same language, in almost all the kingdoms of 
Europe, and conforming in certain respects to the manners of the 
people around them, but yet remaining separated from them by 
certain material distinctions, in which they correspond with each 
other, and thus maintain their pretensions to be considered as a dis¬ 
tinct race. Their first appearance in Europe took place in the 
beginning of the fifteenth century, when various bands of this singular 
people appeared in the different countries of Europe. They claimed 
an Egyptian descent, and their features attested that they were of 
Eastern origin. The account given by these singular people was, 
that It was appointed to them, as a penance, to travel for a certain 
number of years. This apology was probably selected as being most i 
congenial to the superstitions of the countries which they visited. ‘ 
Their appearance, however, and manners, strongly contradicted the 
allegation that they travelled from any religious motive. 

Their dress and accoutrements were at once showy and squalid • 
those who acted as captains and leaders of any horde, and such 
always appeared as their commanders, were arraved in dresses of 
the most showy colours, such as scarlet or light green, were well 
mounted, assumed the title of dukes and counts, and affected con¬ 
siderable consequence. The rest of the tribe were most miserable in 
their diet and apparel, fed without hesitation on animals which had 





Quentin Durward 


569 


died of disease, and were clad in filthy and scanty rags, which hardly 
;it sufficed for the ordinary purposes of common decency. Their com¬ 
plexion was positively Eastern, approaching to that of the Hindoos. 

Their manners were as depraved as their appearance was pool 
,and beggarly. The men were in general thieves, and the women ot 
I' the most abandoned character. The few arts which they studied with 
1 success were of a slight and idle, though ingenious description. They 
M practised working in iron, but never upon any great scale. Many 
^Uvere good sportsmen, good musicians, and masters, in a word, of all 
those trivial arts the practice of which is little better than mere idle- 
*|ness. But their ingenuity never ascended into industry. Two or 
*! three other peculiarities seem to have distinguished them in all 
countries. Their pretensions to read fortunes, by palmistry and by 
astrology, acquired them sometimes respect, but oftener drew them 
under suspicion as sorcerers; and lastly, the universal accusation that 
thev augmented their horde by stealing children subjected them to 
doubt and execration. From this it happened that the pretension set 
up by these wanderers of being pilgrims in the act of penance, although 
it was at first admitted, and in many instances obtained them pro¬ 
tection from the governments of the countries through which they 
travelled, was afterwards totally disbelieved, and they were con¬ 
sidered as incorrigible rogues and vagrants; they incurred almost 
ev'erywhere sentence of banishment, and, where suffered to remain, 
were rather objects of persecution than of protection from the law. 

There is a curious and accurate account of their arrival in France 
in the journal of a doctor of theology, which is preserved and pub¬ 
lished by the learned Pasquier {^Les Recherches de la France, iv. chap, 
xix. 1723]. The following is an extract:—“On August 27th, 1427, 
came to Paris twelve penitents, penanciers (penance doers), as they 
called themselves, viz., a duke, an earl, and ten men, all on horseback, 
and calling themselves good Christians. They were of Lower Egypt, 
and gave out that, not long before, the Christians had subdued their 
country, and obliged them to embrace Christianity on pain of being 
put to death. Those who were baptized were great lords in their 
own country, and had a king and queen there. Soon aHer their con¬ 
version the Saracens overran the country, and obliged them to . 
renounce Christianity. When the Emperor of Germany, the King of 
Poland, and other Christian princes heard of this, they fell upon 
them and obliged the whole of them, both great and small, to quit 
the country and go to the Pope at Rome, who enjoined them seven 
years’ penance to wander over the world, without lying in a bed. 

“They had been wandering five years when they came to Pans 
first; the principal people, and soon after the commonalty, about 100 





5/0 


Quextin Durward 


or 120, reduced (according to their own account) from 1000 or 1200, | 
when they went from home, the rest being dead, with their king I 
and queen. They were lodged by the police at some distance from : 
the city, at Chapel St. Denis. j 

“Nearly all of them had their ears bored, and wore two silver , 
rings in each, which they said were esteemed ornaments in their j 
country. The men were black, their hair curled; the women remark- I 
ably black, their only clothes a large old duffle garment, tied over the j 
shoulders with a cloth or cord, and under it a miserable rocket.^ In ' 
short, they were the most poor, miserable creatures that had ever been j 
seen in France; and notwithstanding their poverty, they were among 1 
them women who, by looking into people’s hands, told their fortunes, j 
and what was worse, they picked people’s pockets of their money, and 
got it into their own, by telling these things through airy magic, 
et CiEtera” 

Notwithstanding the ingenious account of themselves rendered by 
these gipsies, the Bishop of Paris ordered a friar, called Le Petit 
Jacobin, to preach a sermon, excommunicating all the meh and women 
who had had recourse to these Bohemians on the subject of the 
future, and shown their hands for that purpose. They departed from 
Paris for Pontoise in the month of September. 

Pasquier remarks upon this singular journal, that, however the 
story of a penance savours of a trick, these people wandered up and 
down France, under the eye, and with the knowledge, of the magis¬ 
trates, for more than a hundred years; and it was not till 1561 that 
a sentence of banishment was passed against them in that kingdom. 

The arrival of the Egyptians, as these singular people were called, 
in various parts of Europe corresponds with the period in which j 
Timur or Tamerlane invaded Hindostan, affording its natives the ■ 
choice between the Koran and death. There can be little doubt that ' 
these wanderers consisted originally of the Hindostanee tribes, who, 
displaced, and flying from the sabres of the Mahommedans, under- i 
took this species of wandering life, without well knowing whither ' 
they were going. It is natural to suppose the band, as it now exists, 
is much mingled with Europeans; but most of these have been 
brought up from childhood among them, and learned all their 
practices. 

It is strong evidence of this, that when they are in closest contact 
with the ordinary peasants around them, they still keep their language 
a mystery. There is little doubt, however, that it is a dialect of the 
Hindostanee, from the specimens produced by Grellmann, Hoyland, 
and others, who have written on the subject. But the Author has| 

^Rocket. Usually spelled rochet; a close fitting linen garment. 





571 


I Quentin Durward 

besides their authority, personal occasion to know that an individual, 
out of mere curiosity, and availing himself with patience and 
assiduity of such opportunities as offered, has made himself capable 
of conversing with any gipsy whom he meets, or can, like the royal 
Hal, drink with any tinker in his own language. The astonishment 
excited among these vagrants on finding a stranger participant of 
their mystery occasions very ludicrous scenes. It is to be hoped this 
gentleman will publish the knowledge he possesses on so singular 
a topic. 

There are prudential reasons for postponing this disclosure at 
present; for although much more reconciled to society since they have 
been less the objects of legal persecution, the gipsies are still a 
ferocious and vindictive people. 

But, notwithstanding this is certainly the case, I cannot but add, 
from my own observation of nearly fifty years, that the manners of 
these vagrant tribes are much ameliorated, that I have known 
individuals amongst them who have united themselves to civilised 
society, and maintain respectable characters, and that great alteration 
has been wrought in their cleanliness and general mode of life. 

Note 6.— Petit-Andre, p. 101 

One of these two persons, I learned from the Chronique de Jean 
de Troyes, but too late to avail myself of the information, might with 
more accuracy have been called Petit-Jean than Petit-Andre. This 
was actually the name of the son of Henry de Cousin, master execu¬ 
tioner of the High Court of Justice. The Constable St. Paul was 
executed by him with such dexterity that the head, when struck off, 
struck the ground at the same time with the body. This was in 1475. 

Note 7.—Quarrels of Scottish Archers, p. 113 

-I Such disputes between the Scots Guards and the other constituted 
authorities of the ordinary military corps often occurred. In 1474 two 
[three] Scotsmen had been concerned in robbing John Pensart, a fish¬ 
monger, of a large sum of money. They were accordingly appre¬ 
hended by Philip du Four, provost, with some of his followers. But 
ere they could lodge one of them, called Mortimer, in the prison of 
the chastelet, they were attacked by two archers of the King’s Scot¬ 
tish Guard, who rescued the prisoner. See Chroniqiie de Jean de 
Troyes, at the said year, 1474. 

Note 8.—Scottish Auxiliaries, p. 116 

In both these battles, the Scottish auxiliaries of France, under 
Stewart, Earl of Buchan, were distinguished. At Beauge they were 



572 


Quentin Durward ^ 

victorious, killing the Duke of Clarence, Henry V.’s brother, and 1 
cutting off his army. At Vernoil they were defeated and nearly j 
extirpated. ° 

it 

Note 9.—Card-Playing, p. 137 

Dr. Dryasdust ^ here records that cards, said to have been invented \ 
in a preceding reign for the amusement of Charles V. during the 
intervals of his mental disorder, seem speedily to have become com- p 
mon among the courtiers, since they already furnished Louis XL with ; 
a metaphor. The same proverb was quoted by Durandarte ^ in the 
enchanted cave of Montesinos. The alleged origin of the invention of 
cards produced one of the shrewdest replies I have ever heard given ' 
in evidence. It was made by the late Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh to a 
counsel of great eminence at the Scottish bar. The doctor’s testimony 
went to prove the insanity of the party whose mental capacity was l" 
the point at issue. On a cross-interrogation he admitted that the ‘ 
person in question played admirably at whist. “And do you seriously 
say, doctor,” said the learned counsel, “that a person having a superior ! 
capacity for a game so difficult, and which requires in a preeminent 
degree memory, judgment, and combination, can be at the same time 
deranged in his understanding.?” “I am no card-player,” said the 
doctor, with great address, “but I have read in history that cards |tb 
were invented for the amusement of an insane king.” The conse¬ 
quences of this reply were decisive. 


Note 10.— Louis and His Daughter, p. 127 ^ 

--lai 

Here the king touches on the very purpose for wdiich he pressed f 
on the match with such tyrannic severity, which was, that, as the I 
Princess’s personal deformity admitted little chance of its being fruity !' 
ful, the branch of Orleans, which was next in succession to the crown, f 
might be, by the want of heirs, weakened or extinguished. In a " 
letter to the Compte de Dammartin, Louis, speaking of his daughter’s f 
match, says, “Qu’ils n’auroient pas beaucoup d’embarras a nourrir i" 
les enfans que naitroient de leur union; mais cependant elle aura lieu, 

^ quelque chose qu’on en puisse dire.” (Wraxall’s History of France, f 
vol. i., p. 143, note.) ' f 


Wr. Dryasdust A fictitious personage introduced thus in several of Scott’s 
novels, as responsible for certain prosy information. 

murandarte. A legendary Spanish hero; he is introduced in Cervante’s 
shuffle^t’he^cardr’^°^^’ Quoting the proverb “Patience, and 




573 


'I . Quentin Durward 

^ Note 11.— Balue’s Horsemanship, p, 151 

D 

A friendly, though unknown, correspondent has pointed out to me 
that I have been mistaken in alleging that the cardinal was a bad 
rider. If so, I owe his memory an apology; for there are few men 
who, until my latter days, have loved that exercise better than myself. 
jjBut the cardinal may have been an indifferent horseman, though he 
wished to be looked upon as equal to the dangers of the chase. He 
, was a man of assumption and ostentation, as he showed at the siege 
of Paris in 1465, where, contrary to the custom and usage of war, he 

• mounted guard during the night with an unusual sound of clarions, 

• trumpets, and other instruments. In imputing to the cardinal a want 
of skill in horsemanship, I recollected his adventure in Paris when 

1 ^^ attacked by assassins, on which occasion his mule, being scared by the 
. terowd, ran away with the rider, and taking its course to a monastery, 
” to the abbot of which he formerly belonged, was the means of saving 

^ his master’s life. (See Jean de Troyes’s Chronicle.) 

It 

“ Note 12.— Louis XI. and Charlemagne, p. 165 

» 

Bi Charlemagne, I suppose on account of his unsparing rigour to the 
1 Saxons and other heathens, was accounted a saint during the dark 
J ages; and Louis XL, as one of his successors, honoured his shrine 
f with peculiar observance. 

Note 13.— Murder of Douglas, p. 170 

The Princess Margaret, eldest daughter of King James the First, 
when only eleven years of age, was married to Louis, Dauphin of 
France, at the age of twelve, on the 6th of July, 1436. It proved an 
unfortunate marriage, and the accomplished princess (her husband 
' not succeeding till 1461 to the throne of France) died without issue, 

' August 1445, in her twenty-third year, it is said of a broken heart. 
^ The allusion in the text is to the fate of James, Earl of Douglas, who 
’ upon the faith of a safe-conduct, after several acts of rebellion, visited 
' James the Second in the Castle of Stirling. The king, irritated by 
some personal affront, but quite unpremeditated, drew his dagger and 
stabbed Douglas, who received his mortal wound from Sir Patrick 
Grey, one of the king’s attendants (who had previously vowed 
revenge against the proud earl), on the 22d February 1452 (Laing). 

Note 14.— Louis’s Humour, p. 175 

The nature of Louis XL’s coarse humour may be guessed at by 
those who have perused the Cent Nouvelles Nou^elles, which are 
grosser than most similar collections of the age. 




574 


Quentin Durward 

The work is dedicated by its anonymous author to the Dauphin of1 
France, afterwards Louis XL It was first printed at Paris in 1486 by: 
Antoine Verard, and, according to Brunet, afterwards passed through ' 
ten editions (Laing). jj 

Note 15.—Galeotti, p. 207 

Martins Galeotti was a native of Narni, in Umbria. He was ' 
secretary to Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, and tutor to his i 
son, John Corvinus. While at his court, he composed a work, De 
Jocose Dictis et Factis Regis Matthiae Corvini. He left Hungary in 
1477, and was made prisoner at Venice on a charge of having propa- i 
gated heterodox opinions in a treatise entitled De lionline Interiore et 
Corpore Ejus. He was obliged to recant some of these doctrines, and 
might have suffered seriously but for the protection of Sextus IV., s 
then Pope, who had been one of his scholars. He went to France, 
attached himself to Louis XL, and died in his service. i 

Note 16.—Religion of the Bohemians, p. 244 

It ^yas a remarkable feature of the character of these wanderers 
that they did not, like the Jews, whom they otherwise resembled in 
some particulars, possess or profess any particular religion, whether 
in form or principle. They readily conformed, as far as might be 
required, with the religion of any country in which they happened to 
sojourn, nor did they ever practise it more than was demanded of 
them. It is certain that in India they embraced neither the tenets of 
the religion of Bramah nor of Mahomet. They have hence been con-, 
sidered as belonging to the outcast East Indian tribes of Nuts ori 
Parias. Their want of religion is supplied by a good deal of super¬ 
stition. Such of their ritual as can be discovered, for example that 
belonging to marriage, is savage in the extreme, and resembles the 
customs of the Hottentots more than of any civilised people. They 
adopt various observances, picked up from the religion of the country 
in which they live. It is, or rather was, the custom of the tribes on 
the Borders of England and Scotland to attribute success to those 
journeys which are commenced by passing through the parish church; 
and they usually try to obtain permission from the beadle to do so 
when the church is empty, for the performance of divine service is 
not considered as essential to the omen. They are, therefore, totally 
devoid of any effectual sense of religion; and the higher or more 
instructed class may be considered as acknowledging no deity save 
those of Epicurus, and such is described as being the faith, or no 
faith, of Hayraddin Maugrabin. . , 






Quentin Durward 


575 


I may here take notice that nothing is more disagreeable to this 
indolent and voluptuous people than being forced to follow any regu¬ 
lar profession. When Paris was garrisoned by the Allied troops in 
the year 1815, the Author was walking with a British officer near a 
post held by the Prussian troops. He happened at the time to smok^^ 
a cigar, and was about, while passing the sentinel, to take it out of 
his mouth, in compliance with a general regulation to that effect, 
when, greatly to the astonishment of the passengers, the soldier 
addressed them in these words: “Rauchen sie immerfort; verdammt 
sey der Preussische Dienst!” that is, “Smoke away; may the Prussian 
service be d—d!” Upon looking closely at the man, he seemed plainly 
to be a zigeuner, or gipsy, who took this method of expressing his 
detestation of the duty imposed on him. When the risk he ran by 
doing so is considered, it will be found to argue a deep degree of 
dislike which could make him commit himself so unwarily. If he had 
been overheard by a sergeant or corporal, the priigeP would have been 
I the slightest instrument of punishment employed. 

Note 17. —Wolf Superstition, p. 273 

Vox quoque Moerim 
Jam fugit ipsa; lupi Moerim videre priores. 

—ViRGiLii Ecloga, ix. 

The commentators add, in explanation of this passage, the opinion 
of Pliny: “The being beheld by a wolf in Italy is accounted noxious, 
and is supposed to take away the speech of a man, if these animals 
behold him ere he sees them.” 

Note 18.—Quentin’s Adventure at Liege, p. 296 

The adventure of Quentin at Liege may be thought over-strained, 
yet it is extraordinary what slight circumstances will influence the 
public mind in a moment of doubt and uncertainty. Most readers 
must remember that, when the Dutch were on the point of rising 
against the French yoke, their zeal for liberation received a strong 
impulse from the landing of a person in a British volunteer uniform, 
whose presence, though that of a private individual, was received as 
a guaranty of succors from England. 

Note 19. —Murder of the Bishop of Liege, p. 335 

In assigning the present date to the murder of the Bishop of Liege, 
Louis de Bourbon, history has been violated. It is true that the bishop 
was made prisoner by the insurgents of that city. It is also true that 


^Priigel. A whip. 




576 


Quentin Durward 

the report of the insurrection came to Charles with a rumour that the 
bishop was slain, which excited his indignation against Louis, who 
was then in his power. But these things happened in 1467, and the 
bishop’s murder did not take place till 1482. In the months of Augus/" 
and September of that year, William de la Marck, called the Wild 
Boar of Ardennes, entered into a conspiracy with the discontented 
citizens of Liege against their bishop, Louis of Bourbon, being aided 
with considerable sums of money by the King of France. By this 
means, and the assistance of many murderers and banditti, who 
thronged to him as to a leader befitting them, De la Marck assembled 
a body of troops, whom he dressed in scarlet as a uniform, with a 
boar’s head on the left sleeve. With this little army he approached 
the city of Liege. Upon this the citizens, who were-engaged in the 
conspiracy, came to their bishop, and, offering to stand by him to the 
death, exhorted him to march out against these robbers. The bishop, 
therefore, put himself at the head of a few troops of his own, trusting 
to the assistance of the people of Liege. But so soon as they came in 
sight of the enemy, the citizens, as before agreed, fled from the 
bishop’s banner, and he was left with his own handful of adherents. 
At this moment De la Marck charged at the head of his banditti with 
the expected success. The bishop was brought before the profligate 
knight, who first cut him over the face, then murdered him with his 
own hand, and caused his body to be exposed naked in the great 
square of Liege before St. Lambert’s cathedral. 

Such is the actual narrative of a tragedy which struck with horror 
the people of the time. The murder of the bishop has been fifteen 
years antedated in the text, for reasons which the reader of romances 
will easily appreciate. 

Note 20.—Schwarzreiters, p. 358 

Fynes Morrison^ describes this species of soldiery as follows: “He 
that at this day looks upon their sch^artz reytern (that is, black 
horsemen) must confess that, to make their horses and boots shine, 
they made themselves as black as collyers. These horsemen wear 
black clothes, and poor though they be, yet spend no small time in 
brushing them. The most of them have black horses, which, while 
they painfully dress, and (as I said) delight to have their boots and 
shoes shine with blacking stuff, their hands and faces become black, 
and thereof they have their aforesaid name. Yea I have heard Ger¬ 
mans say that they do thus make themselves black to seem more 
terrible to their enemies.”— Itinerary, edition 1617 [Part III.], p. 165. 

^Fynes Morrison. Morrison or Moryson (1566-1629), a Fellow of Cambridge 
University, travelled during the years 1591-97, in all the European countries, also 
in Turkey and Svria. published his narra*’'''* entitled An Itinerary, in 1617. 


Quentin Durward 


577 


Note 21.— Philip des Comines, p, 378 

Philip des Comines was described in the former editions of this 
work as a little man, fitted rather for counsel than action. This was 
a description made at venture, to vary the military portraits with 
which the age and work abounds. Sleidan the historian, upon the 
authority of Matthieu d’Arves, who knew Philip des Comines, and 
had served in his household, says he was a man of tall stature and a 
noble presence. The learned Monsieur Petitot, editor of the edition of 
Memoirs Relatiz'e to the History of France, a work of great value, 
intimates that Philip des Comines made a figure at the games of 
chivalry and pageants exhibited on the wedding of Charles of Bur¬ 
gundy with Margaret of England in 1468. See the Chronicle of Jean 
de Troyes, in Petitot’s edition of the Memoires Relatifs a V Histoire 
de France [first series], vol. xiii., p. 375, note. I have looked into 
Olivier de la Marche, who, in lib. ii., chapter iv. of his Memoirs, 
gives an ample account of these “fierce vanities,” containing as many 
miscellaneous articles as the reticule of the old merchant of Peter 
Schlemihl,^ who bought shadows, and carried with him in his bag; 
whatever any one could wish or demand in return. There are in that 
splendid description knights, dames, pages, and archers, good store 
besides of castles, fiery dragons, and dromedaries; there are leopards 
riding upon lions; there are rocks, orchards, fountains, spears broken 
and whole, and the twelve labours of Hercules. In such a brilliant 
medley I had some trouble in finding Philip des Comines. He is the 
first named, however, of a gallant band of assailants, knights, and 
f noblemen, to the number of twenty, who, with the Prince of Orange 
j as their leader, encountered in a general tourney, with a party of the 
I same number under the profligate Adolf of Cleves, who acted as 
[challenger, by the romantic title of Arbre d’Orr The encounter, 
i though with arms of courtesy, was very fierce, and separated by main 
force, not without difficulty. Philip des Comines has, therefore, a 
title to be accounted tarn Marte qjiam Mercurio,^ though, when we 
consider the obscurity which has settled on the rest of this troupe 
doree,^ we are at no loss to estimate the most valuable of his qualifica¬ 
tions. [Compare also note 32, p. 583.] 

Note 22.—D’Hymbercourt, p. 378 

D’Hymbercourt, or Imbercourt, was put to death by the inhabitant? 
of Ghent with the Chancellor of Burgundy in the year 1477. Mary 

^Peler Schlemihl. The Story of a Man Without a Shadow; a German tale by 
Chamisso (1814). 

^Arbre d’Or. Tree of Gold. 

^Tam Marte, etc. Rather Mars than Mercury; a soldier rather than a counsellor. 
*Troupe doree. Gilded throng. 





578 


Quentin Durward \ 

of Burgundy, daughter of Charles the Bold, appeared in mourning in 
the market-place, and with tears besought the life of her servants 
from her insurgent subjects, but in vain. 

Note 23. —Meeting of Louis and Charles after the B.^ttle of 
Montl’hery, p. 380 

After the battle of Montl’hery, in 1465, Charles, then Compte de 
Charolais, had an interview with Louis under the walls of Paris, ^ 
each at the head of a small party. The two princes dismounted and 
walked together, so deeply engaged in discussing the business of their , 
meeting, that Charles forgot the peculiarity of his situation; and j 
when Louis turned back towards the town of Paris, from which he ; 
came, the Count of Charolais kept him company so far as to pass the 
line of outworks with which Paris was surrounded, and enter a field¬ 
work which communicated with the town by a trench. At this period 
he had only five or six persons in company with him. His escort 
caught an alarm for his safety, and his principal followers rode for¬ 
ward from where he had left them, remembering that his, grandfather 
had been assassinated at Montereau in a similar parley, on 10th 
September 1419. To their great joy the count returned uninjured, ■ 
accompanied with a guard belonging to Louis. The Burgundians 
taxed him with rashness in no measured terms. “Say no more of it,” 
said Charles; “I acknowledge the extent of my folly, but I was not 
aware what I was doing till I entered the redoubt .”—Memoires de 
Philippe des Comines, chap. xiii. 

Louis was much praised for his good faith on this occasion; and 
it was natural that the duke should call it to recollection when his 
enemy so unexpectedly put himself in his power by his visit to 
Peronne. 

Note 24.—Louis’s Suspicious Character, p. 389 

The arrival of the three brothers, princes of the house of Savoy, 
of Monseigneur de Lau, whom the King had long detained in prison, 
of Sire Poncet de Riviere, and the Seigneur d’ Urfe—who, by the 
way, as [ancestor of] a romance writer of a peculiar turn, might 
have been happily enough introduced into the present work, but the 
fate of the Euphuist ^ was a warning to the Author—all of these nobles 
bearing the emblem of Burgundy, the cross, namely, of St. Andrew, 
inspired Louis with so much suspicion that he very impolitically 

^The Fate of the Euphuist. An allusion to the unfavorable comment passed on 
Scott’s character of Sir Pereie Shafton, in The Monastery. In the Introduction to 
that novel, Scott says that having thought that a character whose peculiarities 
should turn on extravagancies once fashionable, would prove amusing, he found 
to his chagrin that the character was condemned as unnatural and absurd. Sir 
Perde was intended to typify one of the romance writers of Elizabeth’s time. 





Quentin Durward 


579 


; demanded to be lodged in the old Castle of Peronne, and thus ren- 
I dered himself an absolute captive. (See Comines’s Memoirs for the 
Year i^68.) 

Note 25. —Historical Epitome, p. 420 

i The historical facts attending this celebrated interview are 
; expounded and enlarged upon in chapter xxvii. Agents sent by Louis 
' had tempted the people of Liege to rebel against their superior, Duke 
i Charles, and persecute and murder their bishop. But Louis was not 
prepared for their acting with such promptitude. They flew to arms 
with the temerity of a fickle rabble, took the bishop prisoner, menaced 
and insulted him, and tore to pieces one or two of his canons. This 
j news was sent to the Duke of Burgundy at the moment when Louis 
had so unguardedly placed himself in his power; and the conse¬ 
quence was, that Charles placed guards on the Castle of Peronne, 

! and, deeply resenting the treachery of the King of France in exciting 
! sedition in his dominions, while he pretended the most intimate 
i friendship, he deliberated whether he should not put Louis to death. 

Three days Louis was detained in this very precarious situation; 

: and it was only his profuse liberality amongst Charles’s favourites 
and courtiers which finally ensured him from death or deposition, 
j Comines, who was the Duke of Burgundy’s chamberlain at the time 
! and slept in his apartment, says Charles neither undressed nor slept, 

’ but flung himself from time to time on the bed, and at other times 
i wildly traversed the apartment. It was long before his violent 
i temper became in any degree tractable. At length he only agreed to 
j give Louis his liberty on condition of his accompanying him in person 
against, and employing his troops in subduing, the mutineers whom 
his intrigues had instigated to arms. 

This was a bitter and degrading alternative. But Louis, seeing no 
other mode of compounding for the effects of his rashness, not only 
submitted to this discreditable condition, but swore to it upon a 
crucifix said to have belonged to Charlemagne. These particulars are 
from Comines. Tliere is a succinct epitome of them in Sir Nathaniel 
Wraxall’s History of France, vol. i. 

Note 26. —Punishment of Balue, p. 428 

Louis kept his promise of vengeance against Cardinal La Balue, 
whom he always blamed as having betrayed him to Burgundy. After 
he had returned to his own kingdom, he caused his late favourite to 
be immured in one of the iron cages at Loches. These were con¬ 
structed with horrible ingenuity, so that a person of ordinary size 
could neither stand up at his full height nor lie lengthwise in them. 





580 


Quentin Durward 

Some ascribe this horrid device to Balue himself. At any rate he was 
confined in one of these dens for eleven years, nor did Louis permit 
him to be liberated till his last illness. 

Note 27.— Prayer of Louis XL, p. 430 
While I perused these passages in the old manuscript chronicle, 
I could not help feeling astonished that an intellect acute as that of 
Louis XL certainly was could so delude itself by a sort of supersti¬ 
tion of which one would think the stupidest savages incapable; but 
the terms of the King’s prayer, on a similar occasion, as preserved 
by Brantome, are of a tenor fully as extraordinary. It is that which, 
being overheard by a fool or jester, was by him made public, and let. 
in light on an act of fratricide which might never have been sus¬ 
pected. The way in which the story is narrated by the corrupted 
courtier, who could jest with all that is criminal as well as with all 
that is profligate, is worthy the reader’s notice; for such actions are 
seldom done where there are not men with hearts of the nether mill¬ 
stone, capable and willing to make them matters of laughter. 

“Among the numerous good tricks of dissimulation, feints, and 
finesses of gallantry which the good King (Louis XL) did in his 
time, he put to death his brother, the Duke de Guyenne, at the moment 
when the Duke least thought of such a thing, and while the King was 
making the greatest show of love to him during his life, and of 
affection for him at his death, managing the whole concern with so 
much art that it would never have been known had not the King 
taken into his own service a fool who had belonged to his deceased 
brother. But it chanced that Louis, being engaged in his devout 
prayers and orisons at the high altar of Our Lady of Clery, whom he 
called his good patroness, and no person nigh except this fool, who, 
without his knowledge, was within earshot, he thus gave vent to his 
pious homilies: 

“ ‘Ah, my good Lady, my gentle mistress, my only friend, in whom 
alone I have resource, I pray you to supplicate God in my behalf, and 
to be my advocate with Him that He may pardon me the death of my 
brother, whom I caused to be poisoned by that wicked abbot of St. 
John. I confess my guilt to thee as to my good patroness and mistress. 
But then what could I do? he was perpetually causing disorder in my 
kingdom. Cause me then to be pardoned, my good Lady, and I 
know what a reward I will give thee.’ ” 

This singular confession did not escape the jester, who upbraided 
the King with the fratricide in the face of the whole company at 
dinner, which Louis was fain to let pass without observation, in case 
increasing the slander. 







581 


Quentin Durward 

Note 28.—Louis's Vengeance, p. 43 5 

Varillas, in a history of Louis XL, observes, that his provost- 
marshal was often so precipitate in execution as to slay another per¬ 
son instead of him whom the King had indicated. This always 
occasioned a double execution, for the wrath or revenge of Louis was 
never satisfied with a vicarious punishment. 

Note 29.—Tristan l’Hermite, p. 438 

The Author has endeavoured to give to the odious Tristan 
I’Hermite a species of dogged and brutal fidelity to Louis similar to 
the attachment of a bull-dog to his master. With all the atrocity of 
his execrable character, he was certainly a man of courage, and was, 
in his youth, made knight on the breach of Fronsac, with a great 
number of other young nobles, by the honour-giving hand of the 
elder Dunois, the celebrated hero of Charles V. [VII.J’s reign. 

Note 30. —Prediction of Louts XL’s Death, p. 445 

The death of Martins Galeotti was in some degree connected with 
Louis XL The astrologer was at Lyons, and hearing that the King 
was approaching the city, got on horseback in order to meet him. As 
he threw himself hastily from his horse to pay his respects to the 
King, he fell with a violence which, joined to his extreme corpulence, 
was the cause of his death in 1478. 

But the acute and ready-witted expedient to escape instant death 
had no reference to the history of this philosopher. The same, or 
nearly the same, story is told of Tiberius, who demanded of a sooth¬ 
sayer, Thrasyllus, if he knew the day of his own death, and received 
for answer: 

“It would take place just three days before that of the Emperor.” 
On this reply, instead of being thrown over the rocks into the sea, as 
had been the tyrant’s first intention, he was taken care of for the rest 
of his life .—Taciti Annal., lib. vi. cap. 20-22. 

The circumstances in which Louis XL received a similar reply 
from an astrologer are as follows:—The soothsayer in question had 
presaged that a female favourite, to whom the King was very much 
attached, should die in a week. As he proved a true prophet, the 
King was as much incensed as if the astrologer could have prevented 
the evil he predicted. He sent for the philosopher, and had a party 
stationed to assassinate him as he retired from the royal presence. 
Being asked by the King concerning his own fortunes, he confessed 
that he perceived signs of some imminent danger. Being farther 
questioned concerning the day of his own death, he w'as shrewd 




582 


Quentin Durward 

i 

enough to answer with composure, that it would be exactly three days | 
before that of his Majesty. There was, of course, care taken that he ‘ 
should escape his destined fate; and he was ever after much pro¬ 
tected by the King, as a man of real science, and intimately connected 
with the royal destinies. 

Although almost all the historians of Louis represent him as a 
dupe to the common but splendid imposture of judicial astrology, yet 
his credulity could not be deep-rooted, if the following anecdote, 
reported by Bayle, be correct. 

Upon one occasion Louis, intending to hunt, and doubtful of the 
weather, inquired of an astrologer near his person whether it wmuld ; 
be fair. The sage, having recourse to his astrolabe, answered with 
confidence in the afiirmative. At the entrance of the forest, the royal 
cortege was met by a charcoalman, who expressed to some menials of - 
the train his surprise that the King should have thought of hunting 
in a day which threatened tempest. The collier’s prediction proved i 

true. The King and his court were driven from their sport well j 

drenched ; and Louis, having heard w'hat the collier had said, ordered | 

the man before him. “How were you more accurate in foretelling the | 

weather, my friend,” said he, “than this learned man?” “I am an 
ignorant man, sire,” answered the collier, “was nev'er at school, and 
cannot read or write. But I have an astrologer of my own, who shall ’ 

foretell weather with any of them. It is, with reverence, the ass who j 

carries my charcoal, who always, when bad weather is approaching, jj 

points forward his ears, walks more slowly than usual, and tries to ;ij 

rub himself against walls; and it was from these signs that I fore- jj 

told yesterday’s storm.” The King burst into a fit of laughing, dis- i 

missed the astrological biped, and assigned the collier a small pension ! 

to maintain the quadruped, swearing he would never in future trust j| 

to any other astrologer than the charcoalman’s ass. j' 

But if there is any truth in this story, the credulity of Louis was ji 
not of a nature to be removed by the failure there mentioned. He is I 

said to have believed in the prediction of Angelo Cattho, his physi- ; 

cian, and the friend of Comines, who foretold the death of Charles of ‘ 

Burgundy in the very time and hour when it took place at the battle 
of Morat [Nancy]. 

Upon this assurance, Louis vowed a silver screen to the shrine of 
St. Martin, which he afterwards fulfilled at the expense of one 
hundred thousand francs. It is well known, besides, that he was the 
abject and devoted slave of his physicians. Coctier, or Cothier, one 
of their number, besides the retaining fee of ten thousand crowns, 
extorted from his royal patient, great sums in lands and money, and, 
in addition to all, the bishopric of Amiens for his nephew. He main- 









Quentin Durward 


583 


tained over Louis unbounded influence by using to him the most dis- 
I respectful harshness and insolence. “I know,” he said to the suffering 
King, “that one morning you will turn me adrift like so many others. 
But, by Heaven, you had better beware, for you will not live eight 
days after you have done so!” It is unnecessary to dwell longer on 
the fears and superstitions of a prince whom the wretched lov^e of 
I life induced to submit to such indignities. 

I Note 31.—Anecdote of the Boots, p. 462 

i The story is told more bluntly, and less probably, in the French 
! memoirs of the period, which affirm that Comines, out of a pre- 
I sumption inconsistent with his excellent good sense, had asked of 
Charles of Burgundy to draw off his boots, without having been 
treated with any previous familiarity to lead to such a freedom. I 
have endeavoured to give the anecdote a turn more consistent with 
I the sense and prudence of the great author concerned. 

i Note 32.— Philip des Comines, p. 470 

There is little doubt that, during the interesting scene at Peronne, 

! Philip des Comines first learned intimately to know the great powers 
i of mind of Louis XL, by which he was so much dazzled that it is 

I impossible, in reading his Memoirs, not to be sensible that he was 

blinded by them to the more odious shades of his character. He 
entertained from this time forward a partiality to France. The his- 

i torian passed into France about 1472, and rose high in the good 

i graces of Louis XL He afterwards became the proprietor of the 
lordship of Argenton and others, a title which was given him by 
anticipation in the earliest editions of this work. He did not obtain 
it till he was in the French service. After the death of Louis, Philip 
des Comines fell under the suspicion of the daughter of Louis, called 
our Lady of Beaujeau, as too zealous a partizan of the rival house of 
Orleans. The historian himself was imprisoned for eight months in 
one of the iron cages which he has so forcibly described. It was there 
that he regretted the fate of a court life. “I have ventured on the 
great ocean,” he said, in his affliction, “and the waves have devoured 
me.” He was subjected to a trial, and exiled from court for some 
years by the Parliament of Paris, being found guilty of holding inter¬ 
course with disaffected persons. He survived this cloud, however, 
and was afterwards employed by Charles VIII. in one or two 
important missions, where talents were required. Louis XII. also 
transferred his favour to the historian, but did not employ him. He 
died at In’- Castle of Argenton in 1509, and was regretted as one of 






584 


Quentin Durward 

the most profound statesmen, and certainly the best historian, oi his 
age. In a poem to his memory by the poet Ronsard, he received the 
distinguished praise, that he was the first to show the lustre which 
valour and noble blood derived from being united with learning. 
[Compare also Note 21, p. 316.] 

Note 33.—Disguised Herald, pp. 497, 504 

The heralds of the middle ages, like the feciales^ of the Romans, 
were invested w'ith a character which was held almost sacred. To 
strike a herald was a crime which inferred a capital punishment; and 
to counterfeit the character of such an august official was a degree of 
treason towards those men who were accounted the depositaries 
of the secrets of monarchs and the honour of nobles. Yet a prince so 
unscrupulous as Louis XI. did not hesitate to practise such an imposi¬ 
tion, when he wished to enter into communication with Edward IV. 
of England. 

Exercising that knowledge of mankind for which he was so emi¬ 
nent, he selected, as an agent to fit his purpose, a simple valet. This 
man, whose address had been known to him, he disguised as a herald, 
with all the insignia of his office, and sent him in that capacity to 
open a communication with the English army. Two things are 
remarkable in this transaction. First, that the stratagem, though of 
so fradulent a nature, does not seem to have been necessarily called 
for, since all that King Louis could gain by it would be, that he did 
not commit himself by sending a more -esponsible messenger. The 
other circumstance worthy of notice, is that Comines, though he men¬ 
tions the affair at great length, is so pleased with the King’s shrewd¬ 
ness in selecting, and dexterity at indoctrinating his pseudo-herald, 
that he forgets all remark on the impudence and fraud of the 
imposition, as well as the great risk of discovery; from both of which 
circumstances we are led to the conclusion, that the solemn character 
which the heralds endeavoured to arrogate to themselves had already 
begun to lose regard among statesmen and men of the great world. 
Even Feme, zealous enough for the dignity of the herald, seems to 
impute this intrusion on their rights in some degree to necessity. 

“I have heard some,” he says, “but with shame enough, allow of 
the action of Louis the Eleventh, King of France, who had so 
unknightly a regard both of his own honour and also of armes, that 
he had seldom about his court any officer-at-armes. And therefore, at 
such a time as King Edward the Fourth, King of England, had 
entered France with hostile power, and lay before the town of St. 

^Feciales. A college of priests who watched over the sanctity of treaties. 



f 


Quentin Durward 585 

Quentin, the same French King, for want of a herald to carry his 
mind to the English king, was constrained to subornate a vadelict, or 
common serving-man, with a trumpet-banner, having a hole made 
through the middest for this preposterous herauld to put his head 
through, and to cast it over his shoulders instead of a better coat- 
armour of France. And thus came this hastily-arrayed courier as a 
counterfeit officer-at-armes, with instructions from his sovereign’s 
mouth to offer peace to our king.”' “Well,” replies Torquatus, the 
other interlocutor in the dialogue, “that fault was never yet to be 
found in any of our English Kings, nor ever shall be, I hope.”-— 
Blazon of Gentrie, 1586, pp. 161, 162. 

***** ^ * 

Note 34.— Prize of Honour, p. 526 

The perilling the hand of an heiress upon the event of a battle 
was not so likely to take place in the fourteenth century as when the 
laws of chivalry were in more general observance. Yet it was not 
unlikely to occur to so absolute a prince as Duke Charles, in circum¬ 
stances like those supposed. 

Note 35.— Attack upon Liege, p. 539 

The Duke of Burgundy, full of resentment for the usage which 
the Bishop had received from the people^ of Liege (whose death, as 
already noticed, did not take place for some years after), and know¬ 
ing that the walls of the town had not been repaired since they were 
breached by himself after the battle of St. Tron, advanced recklessly 
to their chastisement. His commanders shared his presumptuous con¬ 
fidence; for the advanced guard of his army, under the Marechal of 
Burgundy and Seigneur D’Hymbercourt, rushed upon one of the 
suburbs, without waiting for the rest of their army, which, com¬ 
manded by the Duke in person, remained about seven or eight leagues 
in the rear. The night was closing, and, as the Burgundian troops 
observed no discipline, they were exposed to a sudden attack from a 
party of the citizens commanded by Jean de Vilde, who, assaulting 
them in front and rear, threw them into great disorder, and killeo 
more than eight hundred men, of whom one hundred were men-at- 
arms. 

When Charles and the King of France came up, they took up their 
quarters in two villas situated near to the wall of the city. In the 
two or three days which followed, Louis was distinguished for the 
quiet and regulated composure with which he pressed the siege, and 
provided for defence in case of sallies; while the Duke of Burgundy, 





586 ' Quentin Durward | 

no way deficient in courage, and who showed the rashness and want 
of order which was his principal characteristic, seemed also extremely 
suspicious that the King would desert him and join with the Liegeois. 

They lay before the town for .five or six days, and at length fixed 
the 30th of October 1468 for a general storm. The citizens, who had 
probably information of their intent, resolved to prevent their pur¬ 
pose, and determined on anticipating it by a desperate sally through 
the breaches in their walls. They placed at their head six hundred of | 
the men of the little territory of Franchemont, belonging to the | 
bishopric of Liege, and reckoned the most valiant of their troops. ] 
They burst out of the town on a sudden, surprised the Duke of Bur- | 
gundy’s quarters ere his guards could put on their armour, which T 
they had laid off to enjoy some repose before the assault. The King .1 
of France’s lodgings were also attacked and endangered. A great 
confusion ensued, augmented incalculably by the mutual jealousy and 
suspicions of the French and Burgundians. The people of Liege 
were, however, unable to maintain their hardy enterprise, when the 
men-at-arms of the King and Duke began to recover from their con¬ 
fusion, and were finally forced to retire within their walls, after 
narrowly missing the chance of surprising both King Louis and the , 
Duke of Burgundy, the most powerful princes of their time. At day¬ 
break the storm took place, as had been originally intended, and the | 
citizens, disheartened and fatigued by the nocturnal sally, did not i 
make so much resistance as was expected. Liege was taken and 
miserably pillaged, without regard to sex or age, things sacred or | 
things profane. These particulars are fully related by Gomines in j 
his Mernoires, liv. ii., chaps. 11, 12, 13, and do not differ much from " 
the account of the same events in chapters xxxv. and xxxvi. 

Note 36.— Anachronisms, p. 554 ^ 

' J 

We have already noticed the anachronism respecting the crimes 
of this atrocious baron; and it is scarce necessary to repeat, that if 
he in reality murdered the Bishop of Liege in 1482, the Count of La 
Marck could not be slain in the defence of Liege four[teen] years 
earlier. In fact, the Wild Boar of Ardennes, as he was usually 
termed, was of high birth, being the third son of John L, Count of 
La Marck and Aremberg, and ancestor of the branch called Barons 
of Lumain. He did not escape the punishment due to his atrocity, 
though it did not take place at the time, or in the manner narrated 
in the text. Maximilian, Emperor of Austria, caused him to be 
arrested at Utrecht, where he was beheaded in the year 1485, three 
years after the Bishop of Liege’s death. 





Index of Words Annotated 


Ad sacra. 

^d£sop’s book. 

Aldebaran.. 

Allegro. 

Almoner. 

Amadis. 

Angelica. 

Angelo. 

Annunciation. 

Annuncio vobis. 

Appanage. 

Arbre d’or. 

Argent .. 

Aroint. 

Arras.' 

Arriere ban. 

Assoil. 

Astraea. 

Astrolabe. 

Astucious. 

Auberge. 

Aught. 

Auvernat. 

Auxerre ... 

Azincourt (Agincourt). 

Badauds . 

Bailey. 

Baldric.. 

Balue, Cardinal... .237, 573, 

Ban. 

Ban (banner). 

Bar sinister. 

Barbour (John).83, 

Bargain. 

Base-court. 

Bauble. 

Bead-roll. 

Beat! pacific!. 

Beat! qui in domino. 


Beauge.116 

Becket (Thomas).151 

Belial, Men of.253 

Benedicite .178 

Bishop (Henry R.).568 

Black Walloons.419 

Blanc-manger. 83 

Blate.477 

Bloot (Blut).262 

Bohemians. 568, 574 

Bon jour. 52 

Bourgeoisie.296 

Braeman. 37 

Brantome.408 

Brantwein.,.294 

Bras-de-fer. 78 

Braw callant.474 

Braw-warld .417 

Brethren of the joyous science 78 

Broad arrow. 94 

Browst.115 

Bruce,.Robert.83, 351 

Bruder.263 

Buchan (Earl of).112 

Buff-jacket.260 

Burghers’ twentieths.339 

Butt. 97 

Cabaret. 69 

Cabaretier.168 

Cade (John).200 

Cadet. 36 

Caitiff.272 

Calais.136 

Callant.232, 474 

Calthrops. 42 

Campo-basso.119 

Canaille.232 

Cap-de-Diou ..228 

Carcanet. 8.^ 


498 

321 

263 

511 

127 

370 

558 

152 

387 

498 

26 

577 

504 

531 

179 

508 

490 

557 

209 

149 

64 

116 

69 

174 

84 

173 

192 

76 

579 

198 

,508 

526 

351 

114 

393 

,382 

141 

136 

101 


I 

















































































Index of Words Annotated 


58'^ 


Caserne.107 

Cassock.218 

Castile, King of.^ . 86 

Catch polls.381 

Cavalieros.556 

Certes.477 

Chamber (at Ratisbon).198 

Champaign.306 

Chares.557 

Charles V.384 

Charles VI. 74 

Charles VII. 86 

Charnels.443 

Child of France.234 

Chiromancy. 211 

Chouse. 56 

Cicerone.423 

Cistercian.371 

Clerv.429 

Coat-armour. 63 

Cocagne.368 

Cockered.212 

Coif.360 

Combust.214 

Comines (Philip des).583 

Constable of France.567 

Coptic.131 

Cortege.385 

Couchee. 393 

County. 71 

Coutelier . 75 

Covin-tree. 49 

Craig.106 

Cressy (Crecy). 84 

Crevecoeur. 359 

Cross potence.507 

Cuirass.156 

Culverins. 535 

Curney. 475 

Cynosure.301 

Daffing.475 

Darioles. 55 

De Vulgo Incognitis.207 


Debout. 


Dejeuner. 


Democritus. 

. 100 

Denis Montjoye. 

. .135, 374 

Des Comines. 

.583 

Devoir. 

.228 

D’Hymbercourt. 

.577 

Dr. Dryasdust. 

.572 

Doff. 


Don.. 


Donjon-keep. 

. 45 

Donner and Blitz. 

.261 

Dotations. 


Doubt. 


Douglas (Archibald)., 

. 112 

Douglas (James). 

.170 

Du Guesclin. 


Duffus . 

.166 

Durandarte. 


Eblis. 


Ebro’s temper. 

.561 

Echevins . 


Eclaircissement. 

.295 

Ecorcheurs . 


ficosse, en avant. 


Edward III. 


Egvptian . 


Ehrenhold. 


Ein Wort, ein Mann.. . 

.325 

Embrun. 


Emprize. 


Enfans perdus. 


Ephemerides. 


Erranting. 


Esquire. 


Ethnics. 


Etiam in cubiculo. 

.253 

Euphuist, The.. 



Evreux. 137 


Fair law. 


Faire des noces. 






























































































Index of Words Annotated 


589 


Faitours.282 

Familiar.509 

Feciales .584 

Fenelon.564 

Feudatories. 21 

Fiefs. 21 

Fier comme un Ecossois. 37 

Fleur-de-lys. 52 

Fosse. 45 

Fourriers.375 

Frampold.321 

Francis 1.384 

Franciscan.251 

Free cities.299 

Free companies. 26 

Fremit.* • 91 

Funis coronat opus.433 


I Gabelle. 

! Gaberdine. 

I Gage. 

Galeotti Marti. 

Gambade. 

Garces. 

Garrick (Edmund) 

j Gasconading. 

j Cjastronome. 

! Gauntois. 

Gear. 

Geister-seers. 

Genappes. 

Gentillatre. 

Ghostly father. . .. 

Gillie. 

Gipsies. 

Golden Fleece. 

Gorget.. 

Gossip . 

Gramercy . 

Grand Almoner... 
Grand Seignior... 
Gueldres, Duke of. 

Guerdon. 

Guilder. 


_429 

. 57 

.142 

207, 574 

.152 

.262 

.511 

.409 

. 54 

.197 

.116 

.263 

.173 

.555 

.446 

. 65 

568, 574 
.138, 486 

. 76 

. 32 

.525 

.127 

.131, 508 

.567 

. 92 

.297 


Guinguettes. 77 

Gules.503 

Gulielmus Barbatus.254 

Gut getroffen. 84 

Gyves. 245 

Hagel and Sturmwetter.261 

Hainaulter.135 

Halidome.. . 33 

Hanaps . 67 

Handsel. .438 

Hang, draw and quarter.401 

Harbingers.375 

Harbourage. 60 

Harboured.146 

Harquebusses.Ill 

Hauptman.262 

Heathenesse.120 

Heraclitus.100 

Heraldic blazonry.503 

Hermetical.209 

Hill of Venus.277 

Hochhelm.274 

Horoscope.211 

Hors de page.472 

Hose. 35 

Hotel de vllle.392 

Housing.240 

Hyke.505 

Hymen.177 

In commendam.100 

In extremis.437 

Inamorato.370 

Jackmen.120 

Jacques Bonhomme. 84 

Jacques Butcher.226 

Jacob’s staff.209 

Jaiza.208 ^ 

Janus Pannonlus.208 

Jean qui pleure.1®^' 

Term oui rit. 

T^rkin. . 




























































































590 


Index cf Words Annotated 


Jeshurun. 252 

Johannisberg. 274 

Jousts. 22 

Jovius Paulus. 207 

Jus emphyteusis. 500 

Knights of the Golden 

Fleece. 138 , 486 

Knights of the Holy Spirit. . .486 

Laing (David). 568 

Landes .'.. 77 

Largesse.501 

Le C/lorieux.381 

Le Moulinet. 34 

League of Public Good. 560 

Leaguer .. 

I-ess-lee.554 

Liard . 92 

Fiegeois.. 

Linea vitae. 212 

Linstock.3g2 

Lire.. 

Loom . 235 

Loretto. 36 

Lotus-eaters. 54 

Low countries. 408 

Lozenge.303 

Lucky hood.472 

Lurdane.. 

Lusthaus.. 

.. 

Machiavel.. 

Machiavellian. 25 

Mahomet’s coffin. 58 

Ma hound. 244 

Maistery.422 

Maitre d’hotel. 206 

Maitre Pierre. 51 

Malvolio.304 

Mammon.. 

Marck. 57 

Marechaussee. 250 


Margaret of Scotland. 25 

Marmoutier. 9:3 

Marti, Galeotti. 207 , 574 

Melee. 7«' 

Mell ..'543 

Melpomene. 60 

Melusina. 221 

Men of Belial. 253 

Metairie. 98 

.. 

Minting.477 

Montl’hery. 26 

Morgaine.370 

Morion. 235 

Morrison, Fynes.576 

Mortdieu. 33 

Moulinet. 3.2 

Murcian.390 

Murrain.554 

xMusion.503 

My certes.477 

Mystery.521 

Ne moliaris. 25-1 

Neatherd.524 

Nom-de-guerre. 49 

Nostradamus. 214 

Old Angelo.152 

Old Small Back.552 

Oliver Dain.228 

Oliver le Diable.129 

Oliver le Mauvais. 129 

. 503 , 504 

Oriana.. 

Oriflamme.1 ig 

Orisons.2 57 

Paladin. gg 

Palfrey.2 54 

Pannonius, Janus. 208 

Parisian signs.557 

Partizan. 224 

Pasques-dieu. 35 
























































































Index of Words Annotated 59i 


Pate de Perigord. 54 

Paukis Jovius.207 

Penates.209 

Penseroso.511 

Per pale.532 

Pereat improbus.254 

Petard.488 

Peter Schlemihl.577 

Petit-Andre.97, 101, 571 

Petit pointe. 54 

Pilleur. 50 

Pirns.113 

Plack.542 

Pleached.288 

Poictiers.395 

Poll.: .196 

Poortith .351 

Portcullis. 46 

Postern.288 

Potz tausend.261 

Pow.552 

Primes.123 

Proces-verbal.499 

Priigel.575 

Public Good, League of.560 

Pursuivants.135 

Qui vive.542 

Quis custodiat.169 

Ragout. 54 

Ratisbon.198 

Rebecs.101 

Rhinegrave.223 

Rocket.570 

Roland.165 

Romaunts. 83 

Rosier.113 

Rouge Sanglier.498 

Rounding.538 

Routier. 61 

Runlet.Ill 


Sable.503 

Sack-posset.557 

Sacristan.256 

St. Andrew.102 

St. Bartholomew. 79 

St. Denis.135 

St. George.252 

St. Hubert... ..567 

St. Jude. 78 

St. Julian. 60 

St. Lambert.292 

St. Martin. 93 

St. Patibularius.226 

St. Quentin. 59 

St. Tron.319 

St. Ursula.526 

Saint-bleau .412 

Sakers.543 

Salle a faire des noces.477 

Sanglier.58, 498 

Santon.210 

Sapperment.292 

Saus and Braus.322 

Saw's. 33 

Scheik Ebn Hali.217 

Schelm. 38 

Schwarzbier.329 

Schwarzreiters.576 

Scotched. 27 

Scutcheon. 33 

Seneschal.266 

Sero venientibus ossa.298 

Shenstone (William).554 

Shool.472 

Shrift.142 

Sigillum confessionis.148 

Skaith.114 

Skene dhu. 94 

Sheoch doch nan skial.121 

Sodden.428 

Sorel, Agnes.562 

Souchong.556 

Souter. *... .475 

Spreagh.Ill 




























































































592 


Index of Words Annotated 


Spring. 

Springald. 

Stadt-haus. 

Statist. 

Stave and tail. 

Stephens (Catherine) 

Stilts. 

Stone.. 

Stove.. 

Swiss French. 

Syndic. 

Tabard. 

Table Diamond. 

Tasker. 

Tauridors. 

Te deum. 

Termagund. 

Teste St. Gris. 

Teste-dieu. 

Tete-bleau. 

Tete-dieu. 

Teufel. 

Tiers etat. 

Tiffany . 

Tineman. 

Toledo. 

Tournaments. 

Tribes of Israel. 

Tristan I’Hermit. 

Trois-Eschelles. 

Troubadours. 

Troupe doree. 

Two and a plack. . .. 


Unrespective.147 

Upcome .114 

Ursuline.488 

Vaconeldiablo.. . .226 

Vae victis. 459 

V^alentinian.221 

Varlet. 39 

Varium et mutabile.467 

Venerie.156 

Ventre St. Gris.230 

Ventre Saint-dieu.433 

Vernoil.116 

Vieux routier. 61 

Vin de Beaulne. 55 

Vivat.295 

Voice .130 

Vola diis exaudita malignis.. .401 
Vulnerary.239 

Wallace (William) . .83, 472, 550 

Was henker.261 

Weinkeller.262 

Wenceslaus.351 

Wickets.171 

Wight.83, 472, 550 

Wild Huntsman.411 

William de la Marcke. 57 

Wolsey (Cardinal).151 

Wraith.546 

Y eoman-prickers.124 

Yungfrau (Jungfrau).320 

Zuchthaus.524 


. 88 

. 36 

.293 

.456 

.506 

.568 

. 77 

.319 

.439 

. 77 

. 65 

.497 

.308 

. 78 

.403 

,343 

,264 

492 

,412 

, 37 

399 

262 

177 

260 

396 

209 

22 

246 

581 

97 

71 

577 

542 





































































APPENDIX 


(Adapted, and enlarged, from the Manual for the Study of English 
Classics, by George L. Marsh) 

HELPS TO STUDY 
Life of Scott 

What ancestors of Scott were noteworthy, and how (p. 7) ? Look 
up Browning’s poem, “Muckle-Mouth Meg.” 

What influences of Scott’s childhood and school days were im¬ 
portant in relation to his literary work (p. 8) ? 

' For what profession did Scott study (p. 9) ? To what extent 
did he practice it? What did he gain from his profession for his 
writing? What ofiSces related to his profession did he hold? 

Of what kind was Scott’s first literary work (p. 9) ? Enumerate 
his principal works in this field. What was his success? Under 
what circumstances did he withdraw from the field (p. 10) ? 

What was Scott’s first novel (p. 10)? Its date? Why do you 
think he published his earlier novels incognito?^ How long did he 
keep up his incognito? To what extent, and for how long, was 
the public mystified? 

[ In what business venture did Scott have an interest (p. 12), 

I and what was the outcome? Note that by availing himself of the 
! bankruptcy law he could have avoided the debts he so heroically 
! worked to cancel. 

I Where did Scott live during the last twenty years of his life 
(p. 10)? Look up Irving’s Abbotsford. 

Details of Quentin Durward 

Is the historical exposition contained in Chap. I necessary? 
Would a writer of the present day begin with such material ? Can 
you suggest another way of bringing in the necessary historical 
background? Discuss the merits of the different methods. 

Study the portion of Chap. I which brings out ^ ‘ The Contrast, ’ ’ 

593 



594 


APPENDIX 


as a bit of systematic character-sketching; note what methods of 
securing logical divisions in such writing are suggested. 

Examine the description of the wanderer in Chap. II (pp. 30-32), 
as a similar model for systematic des iption of a person. Note 
the distinction between description an^ character sketch. 

After finding out the identity of the elder stranger introduced 
in Chap. II, note carefully all the details of description and con¬ 
versation that have special significance or dramatic force in rela¬ 
tion to later developments (e. g., top p. 35, p. 43, etc.). 

Note how the seemingly more or less aimless conversation of 
Quentin and Maitre Pierre, in Chaps. II-IV, contributes to. an en- 
gaging portrait of the former as a hero of romance. What im¬ 
pression did you have as to the character of the latter, by the end 
of Chap. IV? 

What details in Chap. IV lead one to think that Jacqueline is 
not a servant? Have the words of the song (pp. 71, 72) any par¬ 
ticular significance? 

Why should Quentin be in danger of being hanged in Chap. VI? 
Are his danger and his release from it made to seem natural and 
plausible? Note all the reasons for both. 

What is the principal significance, for the story, of the conversa¬ 
tion in the latter part of Chap. VII? 

Note the elaborate way in which the revelation that is reached 
on page 130 is prepared for by the description of various minor 
personages and of the surroundings. 

What striking climax is there in Chap. VIII (p. 142) ? Study 
the way in which it is built up. 

What is the purpose of devoting so much space to the incident 
of Cardinal Balue and his horse (pp. 151-55) ? 

How is the fact that Quentin comes to the aid of the King 
(p. 157) made to appear natural? 

What is accomplished in Chap. X by the King’s dinner to Crg- 
vecoeur and the cardinal? Is his attitude toward Quentin accounted 
for (see p. 201) ? 

Why should there be the paragraph about <Hhe Memoirs’’ 
(p. 192)? 

Is Chap. XIII particularly valuable for plot, for characteriza¬ 
tion (and if so, of whom?), or for some other purpose? What 
element of foreshadowing is there (e. g., p. 213) ? 


APPENDIX 


595 


I Does it seem necessary, or even desirable, that so much should 
I be said explicitly about the growth of feeling between Quentin 
'I and the Countess Isabelle (p. 239)? What other method than 
J specific statement could be used? (Cf. p. 304 also.) 
it What purposes are served by the long talk of Quentin and the 
f prior in Chap. XVI? 

i f What is the significance of the observation on page 283? 

Is it natural that the Bohemian should so quickly reach the con- 
elusion he reaches on page 286? 

' What are the purposes, for the plot, of the deceiving of Quen- 
, tin in Chap. XX? Are all the details made to appear plausible? 
Have there been previous hints of special interest in Quentin by 
the elder Countess? 

' ' Note the various w^ays in which suspense is kept up through 

/ Chaps. XXI and XXII. Are they all natural? 

’ Does the conversation between Quentin and the Countess in Chap. 

XXIII seem natural—or a bit stiff and affected? Do you think 
' Scott handles scenes like this so well as scenes in which eccentric or 
older characters are concerned—scenes not involving any love- 
making? 

Is there any particular appropriateness in the choice of a person 
to tell the startling news of Chap. XXV ? 
i Note the way in which the meeting of Duke Charles and King 
Louis, in Chap. XXVI, is brought into relation with Durward’s 
story. Is Chap. XXVII similarly related? 

Examine the theatric characteristics of Chap. XXVII; discuss, 
, for instance, a possible stage arrangement of the scene. 

I Point out various ways in which Louis’s actions in Chap. 
^ XXVIII illustrate the proverb about ‘‘the ruling passion strong 
in death ’ ’—or apparently near death in the case of Louis. 

; How is the King turned from his purpose against the astrologer 
(Chap. XXIX) ? 

Note the way in which Durward is again brought into the story 
(p. 454) and trace his service in the adjustment of the difficulties 
between Louis and Charles. 

Sum up what is accomplished in the long conference of Louis 
with Des Comines in Chap. XXX. What news do we learn (e. g., 
p. 468)? 



596 


APPENDIX 


Why is so much attention paid to the scene with the pseudo¬ 
herald from William de la Marck (see p. 506) ? Is it in any way 
surprising that his identity was not discovered sooner? 

How is it made to appear natural and reasonable that those who 
heard most of the Countess Hameline's letter to Isabelle (p. 530) 
should not hear all of it? Why should such information have been 
sent? 

Why didn^t the novelist allow Quentin to complete the conquest 
of the Wild Boar (p. 551) ? Is the way in which he is at last per¬ 
mitted to win the Countess effective? 


General Considerations 

Divide the characters listed on pages 17, 18, into the two main 
classes implied on page 13. (Scott's own notes, pp. 567 ff., will 
be useful.) Are the historical or the non-historical characters most 
interesting? Which part of the action seems most prominent? 
Compare with Ivanhoe in this respect. 

Point out good examples of each of the different ways of reveal¬ 
ing character: (1) by direct comment of the author; (2) by what 
the character says and does; (3) by what other people say about 
the character; (4) by the effect the character has on others. 

Is Quentin Durward more interesting than other romantic heroes 
in Scott's novels? Answer with reasons. 

What literary interest attaches to the portrait of Philip des Co¬ 
mines (pp. 15, 577, 583, etc.) ? 

Are there in this story any anachronisms so glaring as to be 
noticeable as one reads? What, then, is to be thought of the 
anachronisms (pp. 15, 586) ? 

Study the geography of the story with the aid of the map on 
page 6. 

Note the significance of the various quotations at the heads of 
chapters. Do you find any that seem inappropriate? What are 
the principal sources? 

Do the chapters generally have definite unity? Try the experi¬ 
ment of giving titles to some of them as a test of unity. 

Does Scott seem any less at home in France than in Scotland or 
England? That is, do the characters of Quentin Durward seem 


APPENDIX 


597 

any less natural and vivid than those of the English and the 
Scottish novels? 


Style 

Make a list of words found in two or three pages that refer to 
ancient manners and customs. 

Count the number of words of Latin origin and the number of 
Saxon origin on any one page, and find the percentage of each. 

Are the words well chosen? Is the principle of choice precision 
or picturesqueness? 

Examine carefully the words which are annotated and any others 
which are unusual or used with notable felicity. 

"Notice carefully in all the reading, grammatical constructions 
not now regarded correct, and idioms not used at the present time. 

Take two or three detached paragraphs containing long sen¬ 
tences and see if clearness and force could not be gained by break¬ 
ing some of the sentences up into shorter ones. (Cf. Herrick and 
Damon, Chap. XXI.) 


THEME SUBJECTS 

I 1, Narrative themes on tlie divisions of the story mentioned 
I on page 14. 

! 2. The geography of Quentin Durward —trace the various jour- 

1 neys (see map on p. 6). 

, 3. A brief summary of the true history at the basis of the 

story (see especially Scott’s Introduction and Notes, pp. 559 ff.), 

4. A comparison of Quentin Bur ward with Ivanhoe (hints for 
a beginning on pp. 15, 16). 

5. A description of King Louis XI—details of appearance col¬ 
lected from all parts of the story; not a character sketch. 

6. A character sketch of Louis XI. 

7. A character sketch of Quentin. 

8. Scotch characteristics revealed in Que7itin Durward. (To 
be gained from careful observation of the various Scotch char¬ 
acters—Le Balafre, Crawford, Quentin himself.) 

9. The love scenes in the story. (Do they seem natural? Are 
they interesting and convincing?) 




598 


APPENDIX 


10. Philip des Comines in literature. (Look him up in ency¬ 
clopedias and histories of French literature, and see pp. 577, 583.) 

11. Comparison of the gipsies as presented in Quentin Durward 
with what the student knows of gipsies now (cf. pp. 568 ff.). 

12. Character sketches of any fairly prominent personages. 

13. The use of concealment of identity, or disguise. (A point 
for comparison with Ivanhoe.) 

14. The Flemish characters in Quentin Durward. (How are 
they made to seem different from the French characters?) 

15. Dramatization of any of the scenes (or distinct parts of 
them) mentioned on page 14. 

16. The characterization of women in the story. (Which 
women have the most distinct personalities? Is the heroine a real 
person?) 

17. The use of astrology and other superstitions in Quentin 
Durward. 


SELECTIONS FOR CLASS READING 

1. Louis XI (pp. 23-25). 

2. The wanderer (pp. 30-32). 

3. A heroine appears (pp. 60-64). 

4. Something of Quentin’s past (pp. 80-82). 

5. The Bohemians (pp. 94-96). 

6. A member of the Guard (pp. 115-118). 

7. The King is revealed (pp. 130-32). 

8. The crisis of the boar hunt (pp. 155-58). 

9. The King’s match-making (pp. 196-200). 

10. A combat (pp. 227-31). 

11. The guide (pp. 241-46). 

12. Danger (pp. 307-11). 

13. The revellers (pp. 327-30). 

14. The murder of the Bishop (pp. 333-35). 

15. Quentin and Crevecceur (pp. 363-66). 

16. The interview (pp. 384-92) 

17. The explosion (pp. 412-17). 

18. Louis in trouble (pp. 427-30). 

19. The false herald (pp. 497-501). 

20. Quentin and the Bohemian (pp. 513-17). 

21. The final combat (pp. 548-52). 




APPENDIX 


599 


SUGGESTIONS FOR DRAMATIZATION 

(With acknowledgments to Simons and Orr’s Dramatization, Scott, 
Foresman and Company, 1913) 

It has been the experience of many teachers that ‘ ‘ dramatization 
of the literature studied is one of the most successful of all devices 
lor vitalizing the work of the English class.” Nor is dramatiza¬ 
tion difficult if the task is approached with an understanding of 
the book in hand, and of the sort of scenes that can be presented 
j with some effectiveness by young students. 

In dramatizations from a novel it will usually be found that the 
author provides plenty of conversation, which can be and should be 
taken over with little, if any, change. A novel of any length, hoAv- 
; ever, presents so many interesting, even highly dramatic dialogues 
that the choice of the best ones for presentation may be puzzling. 

It is important that the scene or group of scenes chosen shall have 
j a certain clearness and completeness and unity by itself, without 
depending too much on the rest of the story; that the material 
selected shall have real dramatic quality—shall present interesting 
action, not mere talk; and that it shall not be too difficult for ama¬ 
teur actors without elaborate costumes or stage settings. 

To illustrate the last point it may be noted that any scenes 
in which fighting or other violent action occurs—tempting 
though they may be to the youthful mind—cannot be under¬ 
taken because they would almost invariably lead to ” horseplay. ” 
Nor can scenes involving much movement from place to place be 
undertaken; only scenes of considerable talk and action v>?ithin a 
very limited space are practicable. 

Scenes and incidents should be left unchanged if possible; but 
sometimes it is desirable to put in one scene related events and 
conversations that can just as well occur at one time and place, 
though they are not so represented in the story. For example, in 
Simons and Orr’s dramatization from Treasure Island, a confer¬ 
ence between Doctor Livesey and Jim Hawkins, which in the story 
takes place outside the blockhouse, is put inside in order to prevent 
a change of setting. And in the dramatization from Henry Esmond, 
certain events which in the novel are spread over three days are 
put in a single scene. Teachers and students who have had their 






600 


APPENDIX 


attention called to the way Shakspere treated his sources in writ-' 
ing his plays {Macbeth, for example) will readily appreciate the 
frequent need of condensation and concentration. 

Very long speeches should usually be avoided, but as they do not 
often occur in novels not much difficulty on this score is to be ex-^ 
pected. Even moderately long speeches, however, may sometimes 
be interrupted effectively by remarks that some character might 
naturally make, though it is usually best to ‘ ‘ stick to one’s text, ’ ’ 

Sometimes a scene may be greatly helped if an expository or 
descriptive passage is put into the mouth of one of the characters. 
This should not be done, however, unless such a shift aids clearness 
or serves some real need. 

Stage directions—descriptions of the scene or the persons, and 
statements of action accompanying the speeches—may often be 
taken directly from the book in hand, but sometimes must be sup¬ 
plied. The very full directions given by recent playwrights (in 
contrast with the meagre directions in Shakspere’s plays) may be 
examined to advantage. See, for example, plays by Ibsen, Bernard 
Shaw, Sir James M. Barrie, and others. Usually, how'ever, little is 
to be gained by elaborate directions. 

^ ‘ Occasionally the introduction of a new character to act as the 
Chorus offers an effective means of unifying a series of scenes 
chosen from a novel and of making the connection between them 
clear. The character of the Chorus should be in keeping with the 1 
story. His lines—the prologue, epilogue, and interludes—may be ,( 
written in verse to make his part more distinctive. . . In the scenes , 
from The Last of the Mohicans [in Simons and Orr^s Dramatiza¬ 
tion], the part of the Chorus is taken by The Spirit of the Mohi¬ 
cans; his lines are written in the meter of Longfellow’s ” 

In the case of Quentin Durward there is the same difficulty of 
dramatization as in The Last of the Mohicans: many of the most , 
interesting scenes involve violent action or moving from place to ' 
place. However, the material dealing with, Quentin’s first re- 
lations with the King, in his disguise as Maitre Pierre, lends I 
itself very well to dramatization, beginning on page 34. The most i 
important talk of Chapters II and III may be put into a scene ! 
in the forest outside the Castle of Plessisles-Tours. Next, in a I 
single indoor scene the chief material of Chapters IV and V i 
may be presented. By skillful choice of dialogue and action, sus- 






APPENDIX 


601 


pieion may be aroused as to Maitre Pierre's identity, Quentin and 
Le Balafre may be well characterized, something of Quentin's 
past may be told, and the beginning of his love story indicated. 
Similar methods may be applied in other parts of the book. 







CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 


In the following parallel columns are given the most impor¬ 
tant dates in the history of English and American literature- 
from the middle of the eighteenth century down to the middle 
of the nineteenth. Special care has been taken to include the 
classics commonly read in high schools, so that the historical 
background of any given classic will be apparent from the table. 


AMERICAN 


1755 

Braddock's 

defeat. 

1756 

Woolman : 

Journal (be- 


gun). 


1758 

Franklin : 

The Way to 


Wealth 

in Poor Rich- 


ard’fs Almanac. 


170.^) (Jodfrey : Juvenile Poems 
(with The Prinee of 
Parthia, the first Amer¬ 
ican drama). 

'I'he Stamp ACt. 


1771 Franklin : Autobiography, 
first part, written. 

1773 P. Wheatley: Poems. 

1775 Trumbull: M’Fingal. 

Henry: Speech in the 

Virginia Convention. 

177r) The Declaration of Inde¬ 
pendence. 

Paine: Common Sense. 


ENGLISH 

1751 Cray : Elegy Written in 
a Country Churchyard. 
1755 .Tohnson : English Dic¬ 
tionary. 


1759 Sterne: Tristram Shandy 

(begun). 

Johnson : Rasselas. 

1760 King George III on 

throne. 

1762 Macpherson : The Poems 
of Ossian. 

1764 Walpole: The Castle of 

Otranto. 

Goldsmith : The Traveler. 

1765 Percy : Reliques of An¬ 

cient Poetry. 


1766 Goldsmith: Vicar of 

Wakefield. 

1770 Goldsmith: Deserted Vil¬ 

lage. 

1771 Encyclopedia Bntannica, 

first edition. 

1773 Goldsmith : She Stoops 
to Conquer (acted). 

1775 Burke: Speech on Con¬ 

ciliation. 

Sheridan : The Rivals. 

1776 Gibbon: Decline and Fall 

of Roman Empire. 

1779 Johnson : Lives of the 
Poets. 


602 








APPENDIX 


603 


AMERICAN 

1783 The Treaty of Paris. 

1785 Dwight : The Conquest 
of Camian. 

178t? Freneau : Poems. 

1789 Franklin : Autobiography, 
second part, written. 

1796 Washington : Farewell 

Address. 

1798 Brown : Wieland. 

J. Hopkinson : Hail 

Columbia. 

1803 The Louisiana Purchase. 


1809 Irving: Knickeibocker’s 
History of New York. 


1812-14 War with England. 

1814 Key: The Star-Spangled 

Banner. 

1815 Freneau : Poems. 


1817 

Bryant: 

Thanatopsis. 

1819 

Drake : 
Flag. 

The American 

1820 

Irving : 

The Sketch Book. 


The Missouri Compromise. 

1821 

Cooper: 

The Spy. 


Bryant: 

Poems. 

1822 

Irving : 

Bracebridge Hall. 

1823 

Payne: 
Home. 

Home, Sweet 


Cooper: 

The Pilot. 

1824 

Irving : 
eler. 

Tales of a Trav- 


ENGLISH 


1783 

Crabbe : 

The Village. 

1785 

Cowper : 

The Task. 

1786 

Burns : 

Poems. 

1789 

Blake: 
cence. 

Songs of Inno- 

1791 

Boswell : 

: Life of Dr. 


Johnson. 

1798 Wordsworth and Cole¬ 
ridge : Lyrical Ballads 
(“The Ancient Mari¬ 
ner,” etc.). 

1805 Scott: Lay of the Last 
Minstrel. 

1808 Scott : Marmion. 

1809 Byron : English Bards 

and Scotch Reviewers. 

1810 Scott: The Lady of the 

Lake. 

1811 J. Austen : Sense and 

Se^isibility. 

1812 Byron : Childe Harold, 

I, II. 

1813 Southey : Life of Nelson. 

1814 Scott : Waverley. 
Wordsworth : The Excur¬ 
sion. 

1815 The Battle of Waterloo. 

1816 Byron : The Prisoner of 

Chillon; Childe Harold, 
III. 

Coleridge: Christahel. 


1817 

Keats : 

Poems (first col- 


lection). 

1818 

Byron : 

Childe Harold, 


IV. 


1819 

Scott: 

Ivanhoe. 

1820 

Keats : 

Poems. 


Shelley : 

Prometheus Un- 


bound. 

182-1 

Shelley : 

Adonais. 


De Quincey : Confessions 


of an 

Opium Eater. 

1823 

Scott: 

Quentin Durward. 


Lamb : 

Essays of Elia. 


1824 Landor: Imaginary Con¬ 
versations. 










604 


APPENDIX 


AMERICAN 

1825 Webster: The Bunker 

Hill Monument. 

1826 Cooper: The Last of the 

Mohicans. 

1827 Poe: Tamerlane and 

Other Poems. 


1831 Poe: Poems. 

1832 Irving: The Alhambra. 
S. F. Smith : America. 

1833 Poe : MS. Found in a 

Bottle. 

1835 Drake : The Culprit Fay, 

etc. 

1836 Holmes: Poems. 
Kraerson : Nature. 

1837 Emerson : The American 

Scholar. 

Hawthorne: Twice-Told 
Tales, first series. 
Whittier: Poems. 

1839 Poe : Tales of the Grotes¬ 

que and Arabesque. 

Longfellow : Fotcc-s of the 
Night. 

1840 Dana : Two Years Before 

the Mast. 

1841 Emerson : Essays, first 

series. 

Longfellow’: Ballads and 
Other Poems. 

1842 Hawthorne: Twice-Told 

2'ales, second series. 


1843 Poe: The Oold-Bug. 

Prescott: Conquest of 

Mexico. 


1844 Emerson : Essays, second 

series. 

Lowell: Poems. 

1845 Poe: The Raven and 

Other Poems. 


ENGLISH 

1825 Macaulay : Essay on Mil- 
ton. 


1827 

A. and 
Poems 
ers. 

C. Tennyson : 
by Two Broth- 

1828 

Carlyle : 

Essay on Burns. 

1830 

Tennyson 

Lyrical. 

: Poems Chiefly 

1832 

Death of Scott; The Re¬ 
form Bill. 

1833 

Carlyle : i 

Tennyson 

Browning 

Sartor Resartus. 

: Poems. 

: Pauline, 

1835 

Browning 

: Paracelsus. 

1836 

Dickens : 
pets. 

Pickwick Pa- 

1837 

Victoria became Queen. 


De Quincey: Revolt of 
the Tartars. 


Carlyle: The French 
Revolution, 


1840 Macaulay: Essay on 

Clive. 

1841 Browning : Pippa Passes. 

Macaulay : Essay on War¬ 
ren Hastings. 


1842 Macaulay: Lays of An¬ 
cient Rome. 



Browning 

Lyrics. 

: Dramatic 

1843 

Dickens : 
Carol. 

A Christmas 


Macaulay 

dison. 

: Essay on Ad- 


Ruskin : Modern Painters, 
Vol. I. 

1844 

E. B. Browning : Poems. 

1845 

Browning 

mances 

: Dramatic Ro¬ 
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APPENDIX 


605 


* 1846 

I 

E 1847 


' 1848 

f 1849 

5 

( 

( 1850 


1851 


1852 


1854 

1855 


1856 


1858 


AMERICAN 

Hawthorne: Mosses from 
an Old Manse. 

48 War with Mexico. 
Emerson : Poems. 
LongfelloAv : Evangeline. 
Parkinan : The Oregon 
Trail. 

Lowell : Vision of Sir 
Launfal. 

Irving : Oliver Goldsmith. 


Emerson : Representative 
Men. 

Hawthorne : The Scarlet 
Letter. 

Hawthorne : The House 
of the Seven Gables. 

Parkman ; The Conspir¬ 
acy of Pontiac. 

Mrs. Stowe : Uncle Tom’s 
Cabiti. 


Thoreau : Walden. 
Longfellow : Hiawatha. 

Whitman : Leaves of 
Grass. 

Motle 3 ^: Rise of the Dutch 
Republic. 

Curtis : Prue and I. 


Longfellow : Courtship of 
Miles Standish. 

Holmes : Autocrat of the 
Breakfast Table. 


ENGLISH 

1846 Dickens : The Cricket on 
the Hearth. 


1847 De Quincey : Joan of Arc. 
Tenuj'son ; The Princess. 
Thackeraj’ : Vanity Fair. 
C. Bronte : Jane Eyre. 

1848 Macaulay ; History of 

England, I, 11. 

1849 De Quincey : The English 

Mail Coach. 

M. Arnold : The Strayed 
Reveller, etc. 

1850 Teun^'son : In Memoriam. 
Dickens : David Copper- 

field. 

1851 Thackeray’ : Lectures on 

English Humorists. 

G. Meredith : Poems. 

1852 Thackeray' : Henry Es¬ 

mond. 

1853 M. Arnold: Poems 

(“Sohrah and Rustum,” 
etc.). 

Mrs. Gaskell: Cranford. 

1855 R. Browning: Men and 

Women. 

Tennyson ; Maud. 

1856 Macaulay: Essays on 

Johnson and Goldsmith. 

Mrs. Browning: Aurora 
Leigh. 

1857 Hughes : Tom Brown’s 

School Days. 


1859 Tennyson : Idylls of the 
King. 

Dickens : A Tale of Two 
Cities. 

G, Eliot: Adam Bede. 
Meredith: Ordeal of 

Richard Feverel. 

Darwin ; 7’he Origin of 
Species. 

G. Eliot: The Mill on 
the Floss. 


1860 




























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